


It Keeps My Veins Hot

by Leslie_Knope



Series: NHL Draft Rivals AU [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, NHL Player Nursey, NHL Player William "Dex" Poindexter, POV Derek "Nursey" Nurse, Parks and Rec as a courting device, no real NHL players
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13686573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: Derek would be the number one pick if it weren’t for Poindexter, which everyone knows just as well as he does, and as such, the media takes a perverse pleasure in building up their rivalry.Well.Can it be a rivalry if they’ve never met?Based on the mixture of resignation and anger that Derek feels every time someone asks him about Poindexter—which isall the fucking time—he’s guessing yes.





	It Keeps My Veins Hot

**Author's Note:**

> So the very base premise is obviously inspired by the whole Eichel/McDavid thing, but there are no similarities beyond that.
> 
> Title from Lorde’s Yellow Flicker Beat.
> 
> A million thanks to [Han](https://exhuastedpigeon.tumblr.com/) for being the best cheerleader/hype woman/BFF a gal could ask for. ♥

Derek swallows the last dregs of his beer with a wince. It’s not good enough to drink warm, but everyone is exhausted enough from the combine that they’re lowering their standards.

(Not that a bunch of underage hockey players really have _standards_ , but. Still.)

There’s a couple dozen of them squeezed into two adjoining hotel rooms at the moment, sprawled over every available surface and alternately drinking and complaining about the combine. It _was_ hard, Derek will admit, physically draining and also mentally strange, as they got shuffled around and measured and tested as if they were cows about to go up for auction.

It’s loud and fucking hot in here, with the oppressive, familiar smell of alcohol plus teenage boy plus hockey, and Derek edges his way toward the door and the promise of fresh air.

“Hey! Nursey!”

Someone steps into his space, a lithe blond guy who he faintly recognizes—he thinks they maybe played on the same team when he was like, 15. Peter something?

“Hey, man,” he says, which is safe enough.

“If you’re headed out, could you grab some ice?” he asks, thrusting a bucket into his arms, and Derek nods.

“Sure,” he says agreeably. No one should be forced to drink warm Natty Light, honestly, no matter how desperate they are.

He drops his empty can into the paper bag by the door—the Canadians are really into recycling, big surprise—and steps outside. The noise definitely spills out into the hallway, muffled shouts and shitty EDM, and Derek really hopes that it’s only prospects on this floor.

He finds the tiny room with the ice machine, down at the end of the hall near the elevators, and nearly drops the bucket when he steps inside and sees who’s hiding out in there. “Shit.”

The guy looks up, eyes wide, and Derek squares his shoulders.

It’s Will Poindexter, the guy whose name Derek has heard in conjunction with his own for the past three-plus years. The presumptive number one pick, the “next great savior of American hockey” or what-the-fuck-ever.

Also, the guy who Derek’s never met before.

It’s a feat, honestly, considering that they’ve existed in each other’s orbits for years, as two players the same age and nationality who even played in the same college conference. They’ve played against each other several times, but they’ve never really interacted. And with various injuries and scheduling things, they’ve never shared the ice for any of the international tourneys.

Derek would be the number one pick if it weren’t for him, which everyone knows just as well as he does, and as such, the media takes a perverse pleasure in building up their rivalry.

Well.

Can it be a rivalry if they’ve never met?

Based on the mixture of resignation and anger that Derek feels every time someone asks him about Poindexter—which is _all the fucking time_ —he’s guessing yes.

But Poindexter looks fairly unassuming right now, future hockey superstar that he supposedly is, hiding out in the ice room wearing basketball shorts and a tight UMaine t-shirt.

Poindexter sticks out his hand, his face determined. “Will. Poindexter,” he adds, for literally no reason, and Derek lets one side of his mouth quirk up into a smirk that he hopes conveys _yeah, no shit_.

“Nursey.” He shakes his hand and watches as Poindexter awkwardly sticks both hands back in his pockets.

“Nice to meet you. Finally,” Poindexter adds, with just the hint of an edge to his voice, and it makes Derek want to laugh, meanly.

“Likewise,” he lies.

Now that the awkward introductions are over, Derek edges around him to get to the ice machine. He holds the button down, watching the ice slowly clank down into the bucket, but he can feel Poindexter’s eyes practically drilling holes through his back, he swears. Derek’s used to being looked at, for a lot of reasons, most of them positive, but he’s not sure how he feels about this one. It makes the back of his neck flush, though, for some reason, and that pisses him off.

Poindexter is still lingering when Derek turns around, ice bucket full. He looks like he’d rather be left alone, which makes Derek want to stay here and talk to him.

“So,” he starts, searching desperately for a thread of conversation. “Boston. You must like that, huh?”

Derek watched the draft lottery on TV, and seeing the way the Bruins practically fell over themselves for the chance to draft Poindexter was a little nauseating. He gets it, obviously—Poindexter is probably just the player to pull the Bruins out of their funk, and he’s a local New England boy, to boot—but _still_.

Derek has tried, only partially successfully, to limit his Poindexter-related news intake (at least he doesn’t have a Google Alert anymore), but he still knows that Poindexter grew up as a fan of the Bruins. Everyone’s seen the admittedly adorable picture of him in a giant Bruins jersey with a stick when he was like two, so Derek figures that he must be pleased about it.

But Poindexter just gapes at him a little, strangely, then shakes his head. “It could—no. It could be you.”

Derek laughs before he can help it. Because…really? Poindexter going first has been set in stone since before Derek could remember, basically. He doesn’t need this pitying shit. “Uh, okay. Afraid I’m gonna jinx it or something?”

“No, I’m not superstitious,” Poindexter lies.

(Yeah, right. Every hockey player in the world is superstitious, even Derek, even though he pretends he isn’t. He just _likes_ green shirts, that’s why he wears them to bed before games.)

“You’re…you’re insanely good,” he continues. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

He’s weirdly serious about it, his eyes dark in the strange, dim light of this little nook, and Derek swallows.

“Well, uh—thanks, I guess. But it’s still gonna be you.”

“I’m not lying,” he insists. “I watched a lot of the BC games.”

Derek wets his lips. “Gotta keep an eye on Hockey East, right?”

“I just like watching you play,” Poindexter says with a shrug, drawing Derek’s attention to the breadth of his shoulders. He and Derek are the same size, almost exactly—not that Derek pays attention to that or anything—but Poindexter stands up straighter. Especially right now, with the way Derek is slumped against the wall.

Derek doesn’t really have anything else to say to him, so he nods and pushes off the wall before he can stare at his shoulders some more. “Later, Poindexter. See you in a few weeks.”

He’s reached the doorway when Poindexter makes an aborted motion with his hand, almost as if he were reaching out to grab Derek’s elbow. “It’s—it’s just Dex. Or Will. Whatever.”

“K, Poindexter,” Derek says, just to watch him roll his eyes. He does, and Derek grins as he turns to leave.

* * *

To the surprise of literally no one in the entire world, Poindexter goes first.

Derek pastes on his very best bland media smile because obviously the cameras will be on him, and he watches Poindexter slip the Bruins jersey over his head and take all the photos. He looks happy but nervous, his smile tight and his shoulders even tighter.

Then it’s the Habs’ pick, and Derek takes a deep breath, pushing any other thoughts out of his head. Second overall is still a huge fucking deal, and he’s going to enjoy it without thinking about Will Poindexter.

They call his name, and it’s every bit as wonderful as he’s been imagining in his head since he was 10. He lets himself grin widely and leans down to hug his mom, then his mama, who are both teary. He makes his way to the stage, his agent pulling him into a loose hug on the way, and shakes hands with everyone from the Montreal contingent. Pulling on a Habs jersey with his name and number on the back is quite the trip, and he smooths it down with shaking hands.

Overall, he was pleased when Montreal got the second pick. Cool city, close to New York, established franchise…there isn’t much more he could ask for. Plus, if their words are to be believed, they’re really excited for him to join the team. By now, Derek’s mostly convinced himself that they want him more than they would Poindexter, but he’ll thankfully never know.

Derek smiles for what feels like a million pictures, some with Poindexter and the other top picks, and then they throw him in front of the media. A lot of the questions are predictably annoying— _how does it feel to go second to Will Poindexter?_ —but at least he gets to brag on their position a bit, since it’s the first time in like 20 years that two defensemen have gone one-two.

He finally gets dumped in a quiet room with a bottle of water and the promise of a few minutes of quiet. Poindexter is hovering in the corner, scrolling on his phone, and Derek forces himself to walk over.

“Congrats,” he says, and he even mostly means it.

“You, too,” Poindexter says warmly, and he _definitely_ means it, that asshole.

“Thanks.”

The rest of the day passes in a blur of interviews and photos and handshakes, and after dinner with his moms, Derek stumbles on the after party, held in someone’s hotel room again.

Poindexter is there this time, holding court in the corner with one of the Canadians, with one giant hand curled around a beer bottle while the other gestures expansively.

Derek looks away.

At least the alcohol someone procured is better than was at the combine, and Derek pours himself a cup of Jack and coke that’s heavy on the Jack. It’s easy enough to find someone he knows to talk to, and he just carefully avoids the part of the room where Poindexter is.

Derek keeps track of him, though, just out of the corner of his eye. A majority of the times he looks over, he finds Poindexter looking right back at him. It’s heavy, his gaze settling over Derek’s shoulders like a cape, and he tries to ignore it.

Poindexter is probably just trying to psych him out or something, anyway. Whatever.

Derek has a good time wandering around, accepting and offering congratulations, but by the time he’s on the drunk side of tipsy, the crush of bodies in the room is getting overwhelming.

He slips out without drawing attention and wanders down the hall. He passes the vending machine, and suddenly nothing sounds better than a Reese’s. He left his wallet in his room, but after some digging, he finds two crumpled dollar bills in the back pocket of his pants. Hallelujah. He smooths them carefully against his thigh and watches with satisfaction as the Reese’s clatters down.

He rips the package open and stuffs one of them into his mouth as he keeps walking down the hall. The ice room is right next door, and Derek steps in with a snort. He could do without the memories, but at least it’s quiet. He tips his head back against the wall and takes a breath.

The silence has just settled into a pleasant buzz in his ears when he hears steps and Poindexter, of all fucking people, steps in. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see Derek there, and he’s not sure what he thinks of that.

“Ice,” Poindexter says, pointedly juggling the bucket in his hand, and the joke is a little stiffer than he intended, probably, but Derek laughs anyway.

“Poindexter,” he says with a nod.

“ _Dex_ ,” he says, harder than Derek expects.

“Dex,” he acquiesces. Poi— _Dex’s_ eyes drift down to the Reese’s package in his hand, and Derek holds it out. “You want the other one?”

See, he can be magnanimous.

“Sure.” Dex tucks the ice bucket under one arm and steps closer to Derek to take it. “Thanks.”

He eats it in two careful bites and swipes his tongue over the pad of his thumb when he’s done. The room is tiny, and Derek is right next to the ice machine. He could move to be more out of the way, but he doesn’t.

Dex doesn’t say anything over the dull drone of the machine, and Derek doesn’t rush to fill the silence. They’ve been forced together for all the pre-draft media stuff, of course, but they haven’t spoken much. Just enough to be polite, just enough not to fan the flames of the story that they hate each other.

Or extinguish them, either. Derek honestly has no idea what Dex thinks of him. Besides what he says in interviews, of course, which is pretty complimentary, but most of that is media-trained bullshit, anyway.

Not to say that Derek is completely clear on how _he_ feels about _Dex_.

Dex steps back from the machine but doesn’t make any motion to leave. He juggles the bucket lightly between his hands, the motion causing his forearms to flex, and Derek swallows.

Well.

His alcohol-addled self knows how it feels about Dex, anyway.

He’s just so…it’s a lot, okay? He’s broad and fucking built, and he has a _much_ nicer haircut now than he did at the combine. His biceps are peeking out of his shirtsleeves, how fucking unfair is that, and Derek just wants to, like—bite him. In a mean way.

It doesn’t help that Dex’s cheeks are flushed, his hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it. Derek has to clench his fists suddenly, crumpling the Reese’s package into a ball, and look away.

There isn’t much else in the room, though, and his gaze swings back to Dex after just a couple seconds. Dex is looking right back at him, steady as anything, and Derek swallows.

“What?” he snaps, then immediately regrets it.

He’s spent a _lot_ of time convincing himself and everyone else that he doesn’t give two shits about Will Poindexter, and showing emotion in his presence is not exactly the way to convey that.

“Nothing,” Dex says belatedly, and Derek snorts.

“Do people ask you about me as much as they ask me about you?” he blurts out. He’s drunk enough that he has to double-check the order of those words in his head, but he’s pretty sure that he got it right.

“Yes.”

He sounds calm about it, but of course the person who always comes out on _top_ can be calm about the whole thing. Derek says as much, he thinks, and Dex frowns.

“I’m not apologizing,” he says carefully, “but that’s shitty. And dumb. You’re too good to just be talked about in relation to me.”

“I’m better than you,” Derek says, because he’s drunk.

“Maybe,” Dex allows. He’s smirking a little, though, and for some dumb reason that’s really doing it for Derek, Jesus. His face is flooded with heat, and little dots of sweat are pinpricking his lower back. This room is fucking tiny, and he really needs to _not_ be in such an enclosed space with Dex, before he does something stupid.

“You got your ice,” he says nonsensically, nodding to the full bucket in Dex’s hands.

Dex looks down at it. “I did.”

He sets it down on the floor, though, and touches the wall for balance as he straightens—he must be drunker than he looks. He takes a purposeful step toward Derek and stops, when they’re only about a foot apart, and _shit_ , does Derek recognize that look. Oh, god. His heart is pounding in his ears.

“Are you gonna stop me?” Dex asks, his voice low, and in lieu of a response, Derek curls one hand around the back of his neck, hard, and hauls him in those last few inches.

Dex makes a really gratifying, relieved noise right before their lips meet, and Derek drops his mouth open immediately. The kiss is deep and kind of filthy, and Derek is so unbelievably, embarrassingly into it. Dex tilts his head, making the angle even better, and sucks down hard on Derek’s lower lip, almost a bite.

He makes a noise at that—talk about embarrassing—and pushes forward, crowding Dex against the other wall. And Dex _lets_ him, holy shit, going soft and almost pliant under Derek’s bulk. There’s nothing soft about the kiss, though, nor the grip that Dex has on his bicep.

Derek slides his hand under Dex’s t-shirt, spreading wide across the hard planes of his stomach. The muscles flex under his touch, and he grins. He drags his thumb lightly up the curve of his ribs, and Dex twitches away with a groan, clearly ticklish.

“Sorry,” Derek murmurs into the kiss, only half meaning it, but he makes the next pass firmer. Dex’s arm comes up around his waist, his fingertips slipping under the waistband of Derek’s jeans. Just that little touch against his bare skin is enough to make Derek rock forward, and Dex hisses against his mouth, his grip tightening.

The noise startles Derek into pulling back, just far enough that he can see Dex’s eyes, giant and like, almost gold. Derek licks his lips. “We should—probably not do this here,” he says because that’s the only thing in his head besides panicked, aroused white noise.

Dex opens his mouth to say something, but footsteps are coming down the hall toward them. Derek stumbles back just in time for Kyle, the kid who was drafted fifth, to stick his head into the room, and he offers a weak smile.

“Hey! There you guys are. Dex, they were looking for you.”

Derek can’t imagine that Kyle can’t tell, he feels like it’s written all over his face. And if it’s on his face, it’s _definitely_ on Dex’s face, splotchy blush and swollen lips and all. But people will only see what they expect to, he supposes, and at least it’s dim enough that Kyle shouldn’t be able to see where Derek is definitely hard his jeans.

Dex says something back to Kyle, something that Derek doesn’t totally register, and he quickly chimes in some excuse about having to piss before fleeing back to his room.

* * *

Derek flies back to New York the next day and decidedly _doesn’t_ think about Will fucking Poindexter. He works out, signs his contract with Montreal, works out some more. There’s rookie camp, then regular training camp, and Derek has a lot of work to do if he’s going to convince everyone that Boston made a mistake choosing Dex over him.

Not that he _wants_ to be in Boston, but y’know. It’s the principle of the thing.

He has way more important things to think about, anyway, including but not limited to getting accustomed to his new living situation. All the rookies have to be babysat, apparently, so Derek’s living in the guest room of Jack Zimmermann’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous high-rise condo.

He was a little worried about it, at first—like it might be too weird to feel like he was being observed all the time, or he’d be too intimidated and/or awestruck to be sharing an apartment with _Jack_ _Zimmerman_ , of all people—but it’s actually really cool. Jack’s has spent a lot of his life in Montreal, so he’s totally happy to show Derek around and basically perform all the duties that pertain to his assistant captain status. Jack is quiet, but he’s funny and knows his shit about hockey, so they get along just fine.

All in all, it’s been really chill.

At least until Derek walks in one evening after a late run to find a mustachioed dude sprawled on the couch, asleep and wearing nothing but a small pair of briefs with the Habs logo on the ass.

Derek freezes. He slammed the door shut behind him before he saw their…intruder? guest?…and the loud noise causes him to jerk into wakefulness.

“Oh.” The guy rolls over onto his back and lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” he says slowly. This building seems pretty secure, but maybe some kind of diehard fan managed to get up here? Derek’s seen the signs, and like, the _internet_ , he knows how popular Jack is with the female fans.

And the male ones, apparently. Not that Derek’s eager for his own stalker or anything, but the guy’s decently attractive, at least, or he would be without the ridiculous flow.

“So who—”

Jack strolls into the living room and makes a half-hearted apologetic face. “Hey, Nursey. Sorry, didn’t mention that my agent was coming over.”

“Your agent.”

Derek’s agent is nice and all, but he seems pretty committed to his suits. Derek’s never seen him mostly naked on a piece of furniture, at least.

“And best friend!” the guy adds, standing up and slinging his arm around Jack’s neck. “That should come first, Jackyboo, c’mon, man, you’re breaking my heart here.”

“And best friend,” Jack repeats obediently, with a little wry smirk. “This is Shitty.”

“Shitty,” Derek echoes, incredulously, then offers his hand. “Derek, it’s nice to meet you.”

Shitty shakes his hand vigorously and slaps his other hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Big fan. You’re a fuckin’ beaut, dude, the Habs are lucky to have you.”

Okay, Derek’s warming up to this guy. “Thanks.”

“You want dinner?” Shitty thumbs over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Jack’s kitchen is way nicer than mine, and he lets me come over and cook.”

“You’re my best friend, too, now,” Derek says honestly, and Shitty laughs.

Jack is a decent cook and Derek knows how to make about four things, but the shrimp fried rice that Shitty made is delicious, and Derek tells him so several times while they wolf it down at the breakfast bar, if only to encourage such behavior in the future.

Jack’s different around Shitty, a little more open and relaxed, and it’s kind of awesome. He just rolls his eyes fondly while Shitty tells Derek stories about them growing up, and he doesn’t even blush at the embarrassing parts.

Eventually, he taps Derek’s foot with his own.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

“No,” Derek lies, and Jack’s little smile suggests that he’s not buying it. He doesn’t press it, though, for which Derek is grateful. Tomorrow night is their first regular season game, and while Derek is definitely nervous, it’s a totally _normal_ amount of nervous, and he doesn’t really want to talk about it with anyone.

After dinner—and dishes, which Derek volunteers to do because he’s still trying to suck up to Jack—they settle in the living room. Shitty slouches in the armchair, at least wearing sweatpants now, and argues with Jack about what movie they should watch while Derek curls up in the corner of the couch to fuck around on his laptop.

Derek’s phone vibrates with a text, and he fishes it out from where it’s gotten wedged against the back of the couch, under his ass. He has the message preview turned off—because he’s around dumb hockey players all the time, he’s not an idiot—so the notification just shows a number that isn’t in his contacts.

It’s area code 207, and Derek Googles it since his laptop is right in front of him. The answer pops up, and he swallows.

Derek knows exactly one person from Maine, and it isn’t anybody who he’d ever expect to be texting him.

He hasn’t spoken to Dex, or seen him, obviously, since the draft, over three months ago. He wishes he could say that he hasn’t _thought_ about him since then, too, but that would most definitely be a lie. Mostly just because reporters still—still!—ask him about it all the time.

But really, the thing to be proud of here is that Derek doesn’t think about him when he jerks off.

At least 85% of the time, anyway.

Derek’s phone buzzes twice more in his hand before he finally unlocks it and reads the messages.

**Dex:** This is Will  
  
**Dex:** Poindexter  
  
**Dex:** I got your number from someone, sorry if that’s not cool  
  
**Derek:** Careful with all that apologizing, people will start to think you’re Canadian

Dex sends an American flag emoji in response, and Derek snorts. He taps his thumb against the side of his phone, trying to decide whether he should text something back or not.

**Derek:** Good luck tomorrow  
  
**Derek:** But not like, too much luck. Just a little. I'm still gonna score before you.  
  
**Dex:** Wanna bet?

Derek makes a face. Shit. Sometimes he really hates texting because the tone doesn’t come across. Derek resists the urge to…to what, flirt? Jeez, what the hell is wrong with him. One drunken kiss certainly didn’t mean anything to Dex, and Derek’s trying not to let it mean anything for him, either.

He instead picks something that seems relatively safe.

**Derek:** Loser (aka you) buys the winner (me) a drink whenever you come to Montreal.  
  
**Dex:** Deal. And good luck to you, too.

* * *

Preseason was cool and all, but there’s nothing like stepping out onto the ice for his first NHL game. Derek swears that the ice feels different, smoother under his skates than it’s ever been before, and it’s amazing to finally be where he _belongs_ , on NHL ice. He’s most comfortable when he has to prove himself, and there’s an entire city—organization, fanbase, media—watching him, waiting to see if he’ll live up to his potential.

He’s exhausted afterward—playing 24 NHL minutes is no joke—but completely exhilarated. The Habs won neatly, beating the Leafs 4-2, and if Derek says so himself, he and Holster had a pretty damn good showing. He was worried about who his partner would be and if they would get along, both on the ice and off, but he and Holster bonded the first week of camp over musical sing-alongs in the locker room, much to the chagrin of everyone else on the team, and never looked back. They weren’t complete magic on the ice, but it was pretty close and Derek’s pretty optimistic about where they’re headed.

Derek didn’t score, unfortunately, but when he gets home and checks the rest of the scores, he learns that Dex didn’t either, even though the Bruins won, too.

Small mercies.

* * *

In mid-November, the Bruins come to Montreal. It’s always a big game, historical rivalry and all, and to add to it, the reporters have been salivating for a fucking week about the _epic Poindexter-Nurse showdown_ , or whatever. Derek’s running out of bland, vaguely complimentary things to say about Dex, so he’s hiding out from everyone in a training room, running on a treadmill to clear his mind and work off all this excess energy he suddenly has.

Jack walks in, dressed in sweats, and closes the door behind him. “Can you do Dex?”

Derek gapes at him and yanks out one of his earbuds as he frantically jabs at the speed button on the treadmill, slowing to a walk. “Excuse me, what?”

“Can you do dinner with Dex?” he repeats, and okay, that makes a lot more sense. But Derek still frowns.

“What do you mean, do dinner with him?”

Jack shrugs. “I know you guys are…” He trails off and makes a gesture that Derek assumes is supposed to mean _sworn enemies_ , or something. “But Holster and I are going out after the game with him and Ransom, and you should come.”

“Oh.” Derek tugs the towel off the handrail and wipes his face, thinking about it. “Yeah, that’s—that’s fine.”

“Cool.” Jack nods in that awkwardly endearing way of his and backs toward the door. “Now go home and take your nap.”

“Yes, _Dad_ ,” he fires back, and Jack makes a face at him.

Derek obeys, though, obviously, but he can’t settle down into sleep like he usually can. He knows that this whole thing is just a dumb, fabricated rivalry that’s really only good for giving the commentator talking heads something to argue about, but he still wants to _win_.

But losing sleep over it won’t help the effort, he tells himself sternly, and he forces himself to fall asleep.

* * *

It doesn’t work.

Boston wins, 3-2, much to the loudly-expressed outrage of the Montreal home crowd. It’s a physical game, tightly defended, and Derek clashes with Dex against the boards more than once. He’s tough to play against, even tougher than Derek remembers, and sometime in the vague future when he isn’t pissed about this game, he’ll begrudgingly admit how good Dex is.

But he’s just bone-deep tired after the game, especially when he has to endure a seemingly-endless parade of questions about comparing him and Dex that seem to have the sole purpose of goading him into saying something inflammatory.

He refrains, somehow, and feels like he’s played a whole extra period by the time he shuffles off to the shower.

A big part of him wants to beg off dinner, but that would mean losing face in front of Dex, probably, and zero percent of Derek is interested in doing that. Plus, Jack and Holster are waiting for him right outside the locker room, and Derek still has trouble saying no to Jack.

They go to a low-key bar in a different neighborhood, one that the Habs favor when they aren’t up to dealing with fans. Jack texts while they’re in the cab, probably letting the Boston contingent know where they are, and Dex and Oluransi—Ransom, apparently—walk into the bar just a couple minutes after them.

Jack and Ransom, who know each other just from being Canadian, probably, exchange a little bro hug, and then much to Derek’s surprise, Ransom practically jumps into Holster’s arms. Dex, who looks equally nonplussed, steps aside a little, closer to Derek, to give them more room.

Derek snorts. “How do you two know each other?”

“The O,” Holster says, his voice muffled against the side of Ransom’s head.

“Bros for life,” Ransom explains, and Jack just stands there, looking completely unfazed.

Finally the two of them separate, and Holster dramatically splays his arms wide, touching both Dex and Derek’s chests. “Are we gonna have to keep you two separated?”

Derek rolls his eyes and bats Holster’s hand down. “We’re fine. We have, like, met before.”

“And everyone lived to tell the tale,” Dex quips, and everyone laughs. Derek side-eyes him a little— _he’s_ supposed to be funny one, c’mon—but Dex just blinks innocently at him. Asshole.

Derek makes a face back. They text with alarming regularity now, nearly every day, but it…it still feels like a secret. To Derek, anyway, although he can’t really imagine Dex spilling all the details to the Bruins about their burgeoning friendship.

Derek isn’t even sure that it _is_ friendship, anyway. Talking about hockey is pretty much the extent of their conversations, and Derek’s trying to keep that compartmentalized in his head. It’s hard, though, when Dex is just standing in front of him, looking way hotter than he has any right to be.

He’s bulked up quite a bit since the draft, especially in the shoulders and through his chest. Derek’s seen him in highlights—he is _not_ obsessed, okay, it’s totally normal behavior to keep tabs on the competition—and on the ice, of course, a couple hours ago, but it’s blindingly obvious in the tailored gray suit that he’s wearing. Especially when he strips off the jacket and undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, what the hell.

Derek determinedly averts his eyes.

Nothing’s going to _happen_ , likely ever, and he needs to calm down. The kiss was probably just some kind of draft-induced weirdness, anyway, and plus, they’re with their teammates. It’s not like Dex is going to drag him to the bathroom to make out with him or something.

Derek’s face flushes at the mere thought, and he rolls his eyes at himself before attempting to rejoin the conversation.

They order a round, and Derek ends up at the diagonal end of the table from Dex, probably by design. After some good-natured chirping about the game, the conversation devolves into the older guys reminiscing about some convoluted story from the O, and Derek gets antsy.

“I’ll get the next round,” he says, standing up, and Ransom gives Jack an approving nod.

“You’ve been training your rookie well,” he says solemnly, and Derek makes an appropriate affronted face. All in all, though, being a rookie isn’t too bad. He has to do the normal grunt work of cleaning up pucks and lugging gear—and buying rounds, at least when they’re in Canada—but all the guys treat his skill with respect, which is about all he can ask for.

The bar is crowded, and it takes him a good three minutes to get the bartender’s attention and order another round of beers. Someone squeezes in next to him, their shoulders just touching, and Derek knows without looking that it’s Dex.

“Came to help me carry everything back? You’re so chivalrous,” he says dryly.

“Yeah, you’d probably need it,” Dex shoots back. He reaches into his pocket, his elbow knocking into Derek, and pulls out his wallet. “No, I’m here to pay my debts.”

“Ah,” Derek says, letting his mouth slide into a smirk. Dex scored in Boston’s third game, Derek in the Montreal’s second. He posed for pictures afterward, grinning and holding up the puck, which is now labeled with the date and sitting safely on his bookshelf. The Habs tweeted it, of course, and he was tempted to just send the link to Dex, to remind him about their little bet, but he refrained. They exchanged _congrats_ texts, but neither of them ever mentioned the bet.

“And here I thought you’d forgotten.”

Dex scoffs. “Course not. You scored first, fair is fair.”

The bartender comes back with their drinks then, and Dex sets a neat pile of bills on the bar while Derek lifts the tray.

“Can you get it okay?” Dex asks, mock-concerned as he touches his arm, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off.”

* * *

Derek definitely lucked out with his road roommate. He wasn’t enormously worried about it, considering that playing on a lot of hockey teams has given him a lot of experience rooming with random people, but it is so much nicer to spend that time with someone whom he actually likes. Chowder is chill and hilarious and sweet and not even that weird for a goalie, honestly. Sure, he has this odd thing about pucks, but that doesn’t even come _close_ to some of the strange shit Derek has seen with goalies.

He’s happy as a clam to sit around with Derek in their room after games to watch Friends reruns and complain about how much of an asshole Ross was, and really, what more could Derek ask for?

Derek’s phone buzzes a few times in quick succession against his calf, and he groans. He’s absurdly comfortable on his stomach at the foot of the bed, and he looks over his shoulder at Chowder, who’s sitting up against the headboard and playing on his iPad.

“ _Pleaaaase_ ,” he wheedles.

Because he’s an angel, Chowder leans forward to pick up Derek’s phone. “You have four messages from a hockey stick emoji.”

“Oh.” Derek’s face feels hot as he twists onto his side and fumbles behind his back for the phone. “Gimme that.”

Chowder tosses it to him with a laugh, and Derek quickly unlocks it. He and Dex text a lot now, mostly about hockey and random shit like pictures of Dex’s teammate’s dog. He’s in the middle of responding, commenting on how the cuteness of the dog is unfairly sullied by the Bruins scarf, when Chowder laughs again.

“Wow.”

“Wow, what?” Derek says absently, concentrating. Emoji decisions are crucial.

“I have never seen you smile like that before.”

“I smile all the time!” he protests, and Chowder raises an eyebrow.

“Not like that. That is a _lovesick_ smile, dude. Who is it?”

“Just a friend,” he says, which isn’t a lie, but Chowder doesn’t look like he’s buying it.

“Who is it?” he says again, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Just a friend,” he repeats. “I swear. Poindexter.”

“Like _Will_ Poindexter?” Chowder says, surprised. “So all the media shit about you two being rivals is total BS?”

“Yeah,” Derek admits, and Chowder laughs.

“Well, you know what they say about love and hate.”

“Yeah,” Derek says with a sigh, and it comes out a lot more forlorn than he intended. Shit.

It falls silent, and Derek clenches his eyes shut, waiting.

“I didn’t know you were into that,” Chowder says finally.

Derek opens his eyes with a grimace—because _that_ doesn’t sound good—but when he looks over, Chowder’s grinning at him.

“Redheads with freckles, I mean,” he clarifies, and Derek rolls back onto his stomach with a groan, pressing his face against the bed.

“I know. I have a problem.” He sighs and levers up onto his elbows. “It’s…I mean, it’s just a crush. On my part, anyway. I’m sure it’s not reciprocated on his side. It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

Also not a lie. They’re not _dating_ or anything, and random make-out aside, which Derek definitely isn’t telling Chowder about, Derek doesn’t even really know how Dex feels about him.

But Chowder just gasps and clasps his hands to his chest.

“Forbidden love! You’re practically Romeo and Juliet.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Dude, you know how that ends, right?”

“Still hella romantic,” he fires back, and Derek laughs.

* * *

Texting is the extent of their communication until one night in late December, when Derek receives a string of nonsensical texts riddled with typos and random emojis. He thinks Dex is trying to say something about the Bruins—or penguins?—but he honestly has no idea.

He huffs out a laugh and presses _call_.

“H’lo?” Dex answers, sounding sleepy and warm, and this was a terrible idea.

“Are you _drunk_?”

“No,” Dex says mulishly, then hiccups. “Maybe.”

“Where are you?”

“Hotel. Tampa.”

“How’d you get drunk in Tampa?”

“Ferns knew of some place that didn’t card.”

Derek hums. “Don’t, like, choke on your vomit, okay? I don’t wanna win the Calder that way.”

“In your dreams,” Dex says with a laugh, low and throaty.

Derek swallows. He should probably get off the phone.

“Who’s your roommate, is he there?”

“Nah,” Dex says, drawing out the word. “Jonesy picked up. She was super pretty.”

“No super pretty girls for you?” Derek asks, before really thinking about it, and his voice comes out darker than he intended. Shit. He definitely shouldn’t care what Dex does or doesn’t do with pretty girls.

But Dex just huffs. “I’m on the phone with you at two in the morning, what do you think?” he asks sharply, and Derek can’t breathe. But before he can thoroughly freak out about it, Dex curses under his breath. “Shit, it’s two in the morning. Sorry it’s so late. Where are you?”

“I’m in San Jose, it’s fine.”

“Oh.” Dex audibly relaxes, then yawns right in Derek’s ear. “D’you win?”

“No,” Derek says with an irritated noise. “And I played like fucking shit, it was awful.”

He really did, probably his worst game of the season, and he’s pissed about it.

“Sorry I brought it up,” Dex says, and Derek grunts. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he responds, and Dex makes a soft, vaguely affirmative noise.

It’s silent on the phone for a while, just the soft whooshing of Dex’s breath, and Derek throws his arm over his eyes and tries to let the frustration bleed out of him.

“Are you going back to Maine for the holiday break?”

“Yeah. You? I mean—you know what I mean.”

Derek laughs. “I’m definitely not going to Maine.”

“Shut up, Maine’s great. You could be so lucky.”

“Debatable.” He smiles at Dex’s irritated huff. “But yeah, I’m going to New York. Flying out tomorrow.”

Dex makes a noise and yawns again. “That’s nice. Do you guys do a big…thing or whatever?”

“Eloquent,” Derek says with a laugh, and Dex groans.

“Shut up, it’s late. And I’m drunk.”

“Excuses,” he scolds. “But no, not this year. I think it’s just gonna be me and my moms.”

“Quiet,” Dex says, drawing out the word. “That sounds nice.”

“I’m guessing your Christmas won’t be quiet?” he asks, and Dex snorts.

“No. Siblings, aunts and uncles, a million cousins. It’ll be awful,” he says, but his voice sounds awfully fond.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“An older sister and a younger brother.”

Derek closes his eyes and nestles further into the pillow. “You guys close?”

Dex makes a considering noise. “Me and my sister, yeah. A little less with Paul. He plays hockey, too, he’s going to PC next year.”

“Big shoes to fill,” Derek says. “He any good?”

“Pretty good, yeah.”

 _Not as good as me_ , Derek hears.

“That must be hard.”

Dex sighs. “It just—I feel like it makes me a really shitty big brother, you know? He never wants to talk about hockey, he’s…we’re just not that close. I don’t know how to talk to him anymore.” Dex cuts himself off and sighs again. “Sorry, I’m just—rambling."

“It’s fine. It can be hard to be in the Will Poindexter shadow,” he says, and he only realizes how that sounds when Dex makes a pained noise.

“Nursey—”

He grimaces and shakes his head, even though Dex can’t see him. “I didn’t mean it like that, I really didn’t. I swear.”

“Okay,” Dex says after a second, soft. “I…okay. I don’t know.”

He laughs, just a little, and Derek smiles, too. This is so awkward. “Tell me about your sister, then. How old is she?”

“She’s a senior at Yale.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, she’s smart as fuck.”

“How’d you miss out on that gene?” Derek asks, grinning, and Dex groans right in his ear.

“Hey, I almost had a 4.0, okay?”

“For your one year, wow,” he says dryly.

“And how’d you do?”

“Uh, _over_ a 4.0. Academic All-American, thank you very much.”

“Impressive,” Dex says, if a little begrudgingly. “Did you think about staying longer?”

“Yeah,” Derek says honestly. “But I—I knew I was ready, you know?”

“Definitely.”

He lets his eyes slide shut. “I almost stayed an extra year just to avoid you.”

There’s a long pause, and Derek almost regrets saying that.

“Really?” Dex says eventually. Derek can’t read his tone.

“Yeah. But then I decided that was bullshit. You aren’t that important.”

Dex laughs. “That’s for sure. Well, I’m glad you didn’t stay.”

If Derek were more awake, he’d think about that. Instead, he yawns. “How’d you pick Maine?”

Derek must doze off then because he blinks his eyes a while later and doesn’t remember Dex’s response. His phone is next to his cheek on his pillow, and when he taps it he sees that the call is still going. He puts it up to his ear, but all he can hear is the soft whistling of someone breathing.

He just listens for a second, feeling like a creep, and then presses the end call button before he can overthink it.

* * *

The holiday break is as quiet as Derek predicted, and it’s _amazing_. New York during the holiday season is always great, even though Derek doesn’t really see any of it because he spends nearly the entire break lounging on the couch, hanging out with his moms and watching various terrible, Christmas-themed movies. The relaxation is great, and it lasts just long enough that he’s eager and raring to go when he flies back to Montreal on the 26 th.

They go into a losing skid in January, though, which sucks balls, and everything is objectively awful until Derek walks into the locker room one day and promptly gets tackle-hugged by Chowder.

“Congrats!” he shouts into his ear, as Derek rebalances himself under his weight.

“Thank you!” he shouts back, equally enthusiastic. “For what?”

Chowder lets him go and stands back up on his own two feet. “For the All-Star Game! Haven’t you heard?”

No, Derek has _not_ heard, and he grins. He knows that it’s just a silly game that doesn’t count for anything, really, but it’s still an honor to be invited, no matter how cliched that sounds. “Oh, wow. Awesome.”

“Congrats, dude.”

Derek finds a spare second before skate to check his phone and respond to the handful of congratulatory texts that he got. He also checks out the roster, just to see—Jack made the team, too, of course, and so did…Dex.

Before Derek can chicken out, he texts him about it.

**Derek:** So…see you in Toronto, I guess  
  
**Dex:** Congrats!  
  
**Derek:** Thanks, you too. Too bad no one else on the Bruins is good enough  
  
**Dex:** Fuck the Habs  
  
**Derek:** You can’t just say “fuck the Habs” like it’s an appropriate response to everything  
  
**Dex:** Watch me  
  
**Derek:** Your chirping is weak  
  
**Dex:** But true!

* * *

Derek’s supposed to be _chill_ about the All-Star Game, he knows the drill, but he’s actually pretty excited about it, especially when he and Jack actually get to Toronto. Derek knows that he’s good, right, but it all starts to sink in that he’s _made it_. He’s on the same level, apparently, as all the guys whom he’s been looking up to for years, and it’s just all a little surreal. Derek tries not to be starstruck, but he hides it, though, at least he thinks it does.

At least he has Jack, who’s done all this before, and also, weirdly, he has Dex. The two of them are the only rookies on the Atlantic team, which is cool, and it’s actually pretty fun to hang out in person, in a scenario where they’re not being pitted against each other.

The skills competition is more fun than he expected, when most of what he has to do is hang out on the bench and watch good hockey and join in on chirping the shit out of everyone.

Derek gets picked for the shootout and makes his shot, at least, so he doesn’t embarrass himself. Dex is their team’s rep for the hardest shot, and he actually wins, which is fucking awesome, even though he doesn’t break the record. It’s a pretty blatant show of strength, and Derek wishes that it wasn’t so fucking hot.

And the excitement lasts until the actual game. The coaches put him and Dex together, which is probably meant to be more of a joke than anything. But joke’s on them because even though the game is mostly about offense, obviously, he and Dex do really fucking well together, if he does say so himself. Especially considering the caliber of who they’re defending. It’s kind of magic, and Derek forces down the wistful little piece of himself that wishes they could play together for real someday.

Derek even scores a goal, off Dex’s assist, and when Dex slams him into the boards, laughing, it’s pretty fucking great.

* * *

As the cherry on top of the whole weekend, they can drink in Toronto. Everyone goes out after the game, taking over a bar that someone rented out, and if Derek thought that playing with his idols was cool, drinking with them is equally fun.

The drinks are flowing, _liberally_ , and after a while the party moves to the bar at the hotel where everyone’s staying. Derek stays close to Dex, mostly, because Jack has long since begged off, which is great but also torturous because Dex is _touchy_. Derek has no idea if it’s Dex or the alcohol or Derek or any combination of the above, but Dex’s hand spends more time than not on Derek’s thigh.

And while the seating in the booth is a little bit tight, it’s not really necessary for Derek to be pressed up against him, from shoulder to knee. Not that he’s complaining, at all, because Dex is warm and smells amazing and Derek has _such_ a crush on him, fuck.

He should probably get out of here.

He can’t quite make himself do that, so he compromises and stands up, under the guise of getting another round. When he comes back, he sits in an empty spot on the other side of the booth.

It doesn’t really work, though, because now he can _see_ Dex. He’s got a hoodie on now, a UMaine one, and it makes him look ridiculously cuddly. And Dex keeps giving him these _looks_ , and Derek isn’t sober enough to deal with this adequately. It takes basically all of his brainpower to keep up with the conversation instead of like, crawling in Dex’s lap and falling asleep.

Derek’s still in the zone of being pleasantly drunk instead of regrettably so, so he decides to make the mature decision and cut himself off. It’s pretty late, anyway, and he has to get up early.

He stands and says a general goodbye to the whole table, avoiding Dex’s gaze, and crosses the lobby to the bank of elevators. He slips his phone out of his pocket, fiddling with it and then finally unlocking it. He texts Dex, just _816_ , and sucks in a deep, fortifying breath before he steps into the elevator.

Back in his room, Derek only has enough time to take off his shoes, pee, and chug half a Gatorade before there’s a knock at his door. He resists the urge to straighten his shirt—Dex knows what he looks like, for fuck’s sake—and walks over to open the door before he can overthink it.

Dex is standing there, leaning against the door jamb and trying to look casual. Something must show on Derek’s face—lust, hopeless adoration, who the fuck knows, honestly—because Dex smiles a tiny bit, just a quirk of his lips on one side. “I got your text.”

Derek licks his lips, why is his mouth so _dry_? “I’m glad I gave you the right number.”

“That would’ve been very embarrassing,” Dex agrees. They just stare at each other for a few more seconds, and Derek curses the weird tightness in his chest. It’s probably the alcohol.

When he can’t take the tension anymore, Derek fists his hand in Dex’s shirt and tugs him forward, into the room. Dex comes willingly, fumbling one hand behind him to slam the door closed and hooking the other around Derek’s neck as he hangs onto him for balance.

Derek doesn’t know who moves first, but it doesn’t matter because then they’re kissing, fast and furious, as if no time has passed since the last time. It’s been, what…almost six months? Derek is too drunk for date math, but that definitely doesn’t matter when Dex’s tongue is in his mouth. Fuck hockey, why haven’t they been doing this the _whole time_?

He thinks about pulling back to say that, but Dex’s teeth catch on his lower lip then, and Derek gets distracted. He uses his grip on Dex’s shirt to pull him even closer, until they’re pressed together almost uncomfortably close, their noses bumping.

Dex finally rips his mouth away, sucking in a breath as he turns his head, and Derek’s mouth immediately latches onto the exposed skin of his neck. He has enough sense not to leave a mark, even if the dumb primitive part of his brain wants to, so he just bites down a tiny bit, enough for Dex to shudder in his arms.

“You’re so…” Dex trails off and shakes his head. He’s so stupidly attractive, his hair sticking up everywhere, and Derek just wants to stare at him, which—

“Drunk,” Derek supplies helpfully. “I am so drunk.”

Dex laughs as he kisses him again, and Derek leans into it with a harsh groan, pressing him into the door.

Dex pulls back. “But are you—”

“I’m fine,” Derek interrupts. He knows himself—he’s drunk, but not drunk enough to _not_ do this. He’s been thinking about it enough, not that he’s going to admit that. “I swear. You?”

Dex nods, his lower lip caught in between his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

“Good,” Derek says, nonsensically, and then they’re just staring at each other again.

“So are we just staying here, or…”

Dex trails off, that little half-smirk on his face again, and it’s official, Derek is hopelessly into this asshole. He makes a point of leaning forward, using more of his weight to hold Dex against the door.

“You don’t think that I could rock your world up against a door?”

“I have no doubt,” Dex says, then reddens. He looks surprised that he let himself say it, but Derek lets it go because he can be charitable. “But y’know, beds are nice.”

“Beds are nice,” he echoes, and Dex makes a little _uh-huh_ noise. Dex shoves at him, nicely, and Derek shifts back, lets him push them toward the king bed in the middle of the room.

Derek lands with a bounce and immediately tugs Dex on top of him, straining up to kiss him as he lies back. Dex is _heavy_ and solid and it’s kind of amazing. He tries to shift up after a second, but Derek locks an arm around the small of his back and holds him down. Dex complies and moves back to kiss along Derek’s cheek. “I weigh a lot.”

“And I’m strong.” Derek arches his neck back. “Are we just saying things that are true?”

Dex laughs against his throat and kisses him again. Derek tugs at the bottom of Dex’s UMaine hoodie and then gets impatient, deciding to just shove his hands up underneath it. His skin is so warm, and Derek wishes that he were feeling patient enough to actually take all of their clothes off.

They manage to get Dex’s hoodie off and their jeans unbuttoned, but that’s it, especially when Dex shifts his hips, and _oh_ , there’s his dick. Derek sucks in a breath through his teeth and thrusts up, trying to get some kind of rhythm going. It’s less graceful than athletes of their caliber should be able to manage, but it still really, really works.

Derek’s senses are overwhelmed by Dex, caging him down onto the bed, and he wishes, nonsensically, that they could be even closer. Dex worms a hand between them to ruck up Derek’s shirt, and Derek would return the favor if he had a third hand. But one’s fisted in Dex’s hair, the other clutching Dex’s amazing, giant ass under his boxers, and honestly, how is Derek supposed to make these decisions?

He squeezes harder, making Dex groan and move faster. It’s frantic, more so that would be ideal if Derek were sober, but he’s not and so it’s fucking _perfect_. He’s on the edge embarrassingly quickly, which he is absolutely going to blame on the alcohol and the adrenaline.

He comes with his mouth open against Dex’s neck, his nose brushing against his ear as he curls up involuntarily under Dex’s weight. Dex lets out this little choked sob and thrusts down one more time, hard, before stilling, his arm trembling where it’s braced next to Derek’s shoulder.

He’s panting, like he just came off the ice after a double shift, and Derek lunges up to kiss him, just to steal a little more of his oxygen. Dex kisses back, sloppy, and collapses down against him.

Derek exhales, enjoying the grounding feel of Dex’s weight on top of him, and eventually brushes his lips against Dex’s ear.

“You wanna, uh, get up? Clean up?”

“Yes,” Dex says after a second. “But also no.”

“Yeah, same.”

Dex huffs a tiny laugh and yawns against Derek’s shoulder before finally rolling over onto his back.

Derek pokes at him. “At least take your—take your fucking shirt off, god.”

Dex groans and makes a half-hearted attempt to worm out of his shirt before flopping back down and actually _pouting_. Derek would chirp him for it if it wasn’t actually the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

“You are hopeless,” he mutters, probably too fond, but he reaches over and manages to get Dex’s shirt up and off his head.

Derek feels weirdly hesitant about it, for some reason, but he lets himself touch, lets his hand rest on Dex’s chest and then drag down to his abs. It’s the first time he’s seen Dex without a shirt on, and objectively, _wow_. Derek’d been curious, obviously, but he definitely hadn’t allowed himself to Google _Will Poindexter shirtless_ , no matter how incognito the browser.

“Definitely can’t get it up again,” Dex mumbles, even as he shivers when Derek’s fingers skate over his ribs. “Too drunk.”

Derek wouldn’t be able to, either, but that doesn’t stop him from making a disappointed noise and then laughing when Dex swats at him. He fumbles on his nightstand for the rest of the Gatorade that he’d opened earlier. “Here.” He holds it over Dex’s face until he takes it. “Drink this.”

Dex levers up on one elbow to obediently chug it but makes a face when he’s done, drawing the back of his hand over his mouth. “Red is the worst flavor.”

“Lies and slander,” Derek mumbles, his eyes already mostly closed. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Dex says something in response, Derek’s pretty sure, but he’s slipped too far into sleep to really hear it.

* * *

Something is vibrating in Derek’s fucking _skull_ the next morning, and he emits what could only be described, charitably, as a pathetic whine. He pries one eye open—at least the blinds are drawn, small mercies—and spots his traitorous phone on the nightstand, cheerfully vibrating away.

He curses at it and grabs it, tapping off the alarm. He has an early flight— _why_ did he make such a stupid decision?—but at least he set the alarm for it yesterday morning, so he wouldn’t forget.

Thankfully Dex appears to sleep like the dead because he’s still sacked out next to Derek, one arm over his head with his head turned into his bicep. One of his legs is thrown over Derek’s, and Derek gingerly untangles himself and crawls out of bed before he can start thinking stupid things like the merits cancelling his flight and staying here in this hotel room forever.

He packed up most of the way last night, before they went out, so he just quietly changes, wincing at his gross boxers, and packs up his toiletries. He stares at Dex, kind of awkwardly, and wonders what to do. He’s definitely not going to kick him out or anything, but the thought of Dex waking up alone makes his chest hurt.

Then Derek’s eyes land on the hotel stationary on the desk.

He debates for an embarrassingly long time about what to write and finally scrawls something on the pad, leaving it on the pillow next to Dex’s head before tiptoeing out of the room.

_Early flight, fml. See you in Boston next month?_

_—D_

* * *

**Dex:** So how was that flight?  
  
**Derek:** I mean, I didn’t puke in an airplane bathroom  
  
**Dex:** That's a pretty low bar

Derek wants to make some joke—maybe something about Dex racking up his room service bill or not trashing his room—but he isn’t sure if this is something that they’re talking about or if it’s going to be like The First Kiss. He doesn’t really think that warrants mental capitalization anymore, now that last night happened, but it still feels significant. They didn’t talk about that, and maybe they won’t talk about this, either.

He just sends back the little puke face emoji and tosses his phone to the other side of the couch. Time to wallow in his hangover.

* * *

After the All-Star Game, the Habs go on a bit of a tear. A tear for _them_ , at least, which means 15 points in 10 games. That’s enough to put them in playoff contention, though, and everyone starts to be cautiously hopeful. Derek’s tired, obviously, pretty much all the time—all the minutes are catching up to him—but he’s playing well and he’s happy, at least until Tuesday afternoon, when everything seems to come crashing down in the span of 24 hours.

The Habs lose, Derek plays shitty in practice the following day, _and_ he and Dex continue to text every damn day without ever once mentioning what happened in Toronto.

So there’s no other solution than for Derek to spend their off night in his bed, watching shitty TV and eating things that he shouldn’t.

He’s already got takeout, and now he’s heading toward the little bakery down the street from Jack’s building, the one that he’s kept in the back of his mind for when he’s in the mood for a lot of buttery, delicious calories.

So: today.

The guy behind the counter is objectively really attractive—short but jacked, blond hair, big brown eyes—but Derek’s kind of into tall redheads right now. _Fuck_ his life, seriously.

“Hi,” he says, when he gets to the front of the line.

“Hello there,” the guy says warmly, still busying himself with the register, then startles when he looks up. His eyes widen, and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth briefly. “Oh! You’re Derek Nurse.”

It’s still a little bit weird to get recognized, though it happens a lot in such a hockey-obsessed town, and Derek whips out his practiced fan smile. “That I am. Hello.”

“I’m Eric, it’s nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand, and Derek takes it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Derek tilts his head. That sounds a little more—hmm. “From…who?”

“Oh,” Eric says, with a little blush. He really is cute. “I’m, um, friends with Jack?”

So Derek, like, _knows_ that Jack must have some friends outside of hockey—he must, right?—but he’s never heard about any of them. Especially one who works at a bakery. “Oh, cool,” he says, trying to hide his surprise. “How do you two know each other? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

Eric laughs and fiddles with the stack of napkins next to the register. “Lord, no, I’m from Georgia, I just go to McGill. Jack comes in here a lot, we’ve talked.”

“I live with him, actually,” he says, and Eric nods.

“Yeah, he’s, he’s mentioned that.”

Derek scans the pastry case—cookies, muffins, croissants, pies, the whole shebang—and snorts. “Does Jack actually eat any of this? Don’t get me wrong, everything looks amazing,” he adds quickly. “It’s just, Jack tends to be really strict.”

They all eat pretty well, obviously, but Derek doesn’t know anyone who sticks to the nutrition plan as closely as Jack does.

“Oh, I know,” Eric says, laughing like it’s an inside joke, and _that’s_ interesting. “He used to only get bran muffins until I practically forced him to eat my pies.”

“Yours?” Derek asks, and Eric blushes a little.

“Yeah, I bake all the pies.”

“Nice.” Derek bends down to look in the case again. “They all look awesome. Give me two slices of whatever Jack’s favorite is, please.”

* * *

When Derek gets home, Jack’s stretched out on the couch, with an ice pack strapped to his knee and a book in his hand. Derek grins at him from the doorway. “So I met your friend today.”

Jack snorts. “What friend? You know all my friends.”

Derek leans over the back of the couch and dangles the bag in Jack’s face, the bakery logo clearly visible. In a fascinating turn of events, Jack turns a deep red. “Oh. Bittle.”

“So you’re on a nickname basis? He told me his name was Eric.”

“Bittle is his last name.” Jack tries to snatch the bag from him, but Derek holds it out of his reach. “What were you doing there, anyway?”

Derek shrugs. “I was in a shitty mood, wanted to blow my diet.”

Jack frowns as he struggles to sit up without dislodging the ice. “One bad practice doesn’t mean—”

Derek waves his hand before Jack can go too far down that path. “You don’t have to captain me right now, it’s fine. I’m just gonna go wallow with my takeout and my pie.”

“What kind did you get?”

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Wow, have you tried them all?”

Jack rolls his eyes, which doesn’t distract from his blush like he’s probably hoping. “No,” he says, which is probably a lie.

“I got the maple-crusted apple.” Derek grins at him. “Which _someone_ told me was your favorite.”

Jack coughs and turns back to his book. “You know, cheat days.”

“Right,” Derek drawls. “There’s a second slice in the kitchen for you.”

Jack doesn’t look up from his book, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Thanks. Enjoy your wallowing.”

“Oh, I will.”

Derek spreads a towel out over his bed—he’s not a _savage_ , crumbs in the bed are the worst—and unpacks his food. The pie is objectively beautiful, and Derek snaps a picture and picks a flattering filter before uploading it to Instagram. He tags the bakery and adds the caption, _Eating my feelings_.

He takes a quick shower, just to rinse off, and changes into his comfiest sweatpants and favorite BC hoodie. By the time he climbs back into bed, his phone’s lit up with a text.

**Dex:** Good feelings or bad feelings?  
  
**Derek:** Wow, what an insta stalker

Dex just sends back a photo, of a deliciously greasy- and cheesy-looking hamburger with one bite taken out of it and a pile of fries, and Derek snorts. He pops open his takeout container and navigates FaceTime on his laptop.

Dex answers right away, but he’s chewing.

“Charming,” Derek says dryly, and Dex rolls his eyes.

“Thanks,” he says, his mouth full, and Derek grimaces. “What’re you eating?”

Derek lifts the styrofoam container and tilts it toward the camera. “Pad thai,” he says, and Dex nods.

“Looks good.”

“I’m pretty jealous of that burger, though.”

“It’s amazing, you should be,” Dex says, before taking another huge bite. He has the decency to finish chewing before he speaks again. “So you never answered my question.”

“Oh.” Derek takes a bite of his own to buy time. “Bad ones, I guess.”

“Yeah, me too, kinda.”

“Then tell me something bad that’s happened to you recently. That’ll make me feel better.”

“Wow, harsh,” Dex says, even as he laughs. “Um…I almost went off on a reporter yesterday.”

Derek snorts. “Really?”

“I mean, I wasn’t _that_ close. But I wanted to.”

“Why?”

Dex shrugs. “Same old shit. Just— _how does it feel to be the savior of the franchise_ , _what’s the pressure like_ , whatever.”

“The life of a number one pick is hard, William,” Derek says, as solemn as he can manage, and Dex makes a face.

“It’s just—I dunno, it’s hard to keep finding answers to their questions that don’t make me sound like an asshole. Or ungrateful, or something.”

“They have, like, training for that, you know,” Derek says, and Dex rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit. I’ve done plenty of it.” Dex’s gaze slides away. “But you—you could just like…smile at people and make them forget what they even asked you, so you don’t really have a leg to stand on here.”

Derek grins. “Oh, really?” he drawls, and it’s obvious even through the subpar video that Dex is turning red. But it’s the closest either of them has come to actually acknowledging what’s going on here, maybe, so Derek will take it.

“Just—just shut up. You don’t know my pain.”

Dex flops back against the back of his couch with a dramatic huff, and Derek laughs.

“You poor baby. At least the official language of your city is _English_ ,” he says pointedly, and Dex has the courtesy to wince.

“Shit. How’s that going?”

Derek sighs. “It’s hard sometimes. I’m trying to learn, you know, so I can do some of my interviews in French like the other guys do. I feel like they all think of me as this dumb American kid.”

Dex smiles a little and reaches for his fries. “Did something happen with that? Is that why you’re eating Thai food and pie?”

Derek shrugs. “Not really. Just—we lost last night, you know. Shitty practice.”

“Everyone has shitty practices.”

“I _know_ that.” Derek stabs viciously at his noodles. Some days he feels depressingly inadequate, but it’s not like he’s going to tell Dex that. “But it was just, I dunno, a bad day or whatever. It’s fine. I’ll get over it.”

“Are you reading your press or something?”

 _No_ , of course not, because Derek isn’t an idiot. Most of the time. But now he’s concerned. “What, why? Did you read something? Was it bad?”

“What, no, of course not.” Dex rolls his eyes at him, but it looks enormously fond. “C’mon, you’re having an amazing season, what would they even say? You just—I dunno, had that look or something. That you read something bad.”

Derek shakes his head. “No. It’s fine, I swear.”

Dex looks unconvinced. He opens his mouth, but Derek cuts him off.

“C’mon, we’re bitching about things. Your turn again.”

“Um…” Dex ruffles his hair, making it stand up in a thousand directions, and takes another bite of his burger. “I’m tired,” he offers, and Derek nods because _yes_.

“Seriously, tell me about it.”

“I mean, it’s not like it isn’t—”

“Hey,” Derek interrupts. “C’mon, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’m in the same boat you are, I know. It’s fucking exhausting.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean, I knew it’d be different than college, but—”

“But it’s even more,” Derek finishes, since he feels the same way. He _loves_ it, obviously, more than anything, but it’s still hard as fuck, adjusting to the pace of play and the skill level and just the _volume_ of everything.

Dex nods, and it’s quiet for a few minutes as they both eat. “We’re doing it, though,” he says finally, with a faint smile on his face, and Derek grins.

“Fuckin’ right we are.”

* * *

By the time Derek checks in on the hockey headlines, he’s three beers in and officially tipsy. He doesn’t have a desire to get, like, _wasted_ , but since he has a bruise the size of his palm on his back that hurts like a bitch _and_ they have two days off, he’s indulging in a little pain-numbing alcohol. It works just as well as the painkillers, probably.

He scrolls idly on his phone, then almost drops it when the first story he sees is that Dex has apparently scored a fucking _hat trick_ , Jesus Christ. When was the last time a defenseman even did that? Derek waits for the familiar sting of jealousy to fade away—it happens faster every time—and then navigates to the highlights.

The second goal was ugly, more luck than anything, but the others, from what Derek can tell on the small screen, are fucking gorgeous. He grabs his laptop from the end of the bed and pulls them up to watch again.

Gorgeous is right, holy shit. The first one is insane, this nifty little top shelf, glove side thing that’s just the cherry on top of a great play, after Dex navigated through what seemed like every other person on the ice.

The second one is messy, coming out of a sloppy scrum, but the third one’s a beauty of a slapshot from 30 feet away, showcasing Dex’s strength and accuracy. His teammates swarm him afterward, crushing him against the boards, and the home crowd goes nuts. Dex is clearly trying to hide his smile, but it peeks out when he skates down the bench for the third time as the hats come raining down.

Derek watches the highlights twice more before he realizes what’s going on. His throat is _dry_ , what the fuck, and he is most definitely getting hard, just hanging out in his bed, watching Dex play hockey. He reaches for his beer on the nightstand and downs the last few swallows.

He scrounges for his phone again and taps out a text with his left hand while his right slowly massages the bulge in his sweatpants.

**Derek:** Just got hard watching your hatty highlights  
  
**Derek:** Congrats, btw

He sends it before he can overthink it and then tosses his phone toward the foot of the bed. He’s sure that it’ll be a while before Dex gets to his phone, and he doesn’t want to be antsy waiting for a response.

Sexting certainly isn’t a thing that they’ve ever done, but Derek doesn’t care. Dex probably won’t respond ’til the morning, anyway, and Derek can send a _whoops I was drunk lol_ text in like half an hour.

But he’s hard now, and he wants to take care of that, so he balances his laptop on his stomach and restarts the highlights video. Fuck it, no one’s here to judge him.

His phone buzzes just a couple minutes later, and he grimaces. He’s wants to ignore it, he really does, but just the _chance_ that it’s Dex is enough to be distracting.

**Dex:** Is that...metaphorical  
  
**Derek:** I am 100% serious  
  
**Derek:** I literally have my hand in my pants right now  
  
**Dex:** Can you wait 5 minutes?  
  
**Derek:** I dunno, are you gonna make it worth my while?  
  
**Dex:** Wow, that was awful  
  
**Dex:** Wait 5 minutes

Derek groans but obeys, stilling his hand. He watches the highlights again, and then another one, some fan-made compilation of Dex’s goals, that shows up in the list of suggested videos.

His phone rings, startling him even though he was expecting it, and he forces himself to wait until after the second ring to pick it up. “Hi.”

“Did you wait?”

Derek sighs, dramatic. “Barely. I mean, I’m not even hard anymore.”

“I think you’re lying.”

Derek doesn’t dignify that with a response. There are muffled sounds coming from Dex’s end of the line, then what sounds like a door closing.

“Where are you?” he asks, and Dex huffs a little laugh.

“I’m not gonna tell you, it’ll ruin the mood.”

“So…congrats,” Derek says awkwardly. Is phone sex a thing that’s happening here? He has no idea. His dick seems to think so, at least, and he idly palms at it.

“Thanks. So you liked it?”

Dex’s voice is low, quiet but firm, and Derek swallows.

“Yeah. Fuck. Jesus, that was—” He cuts himself off and laughs. “Yeah, those were fucking gorgeous.”

“Not the second one,” Dex says, and Derek laughs.

“True,” he admits. “But they all count the same.”

“Thank god for that,” Dex says, and then it’s quiet again for a few seconds. “So is this the part where I ask you what you’re wearing?”

“I don’t know, are you reading off a phone sex script?”

Dex snorts. “I—”

Derek can just barely make out a little grunt, a very _familiar_ little grunt, and he cuts Dex off.

“Dude, are you—what are you doing?”

“What do you _think_ I’m doing? I’m jerking off. Is there something else I’m supposed to be doing?”

Derek swallows. “But we haven’t, like, _started_ yet.”

Dex laughs, but it’s low and strained and Derek can feel it in his gut. “It _started_ when you texted me, telling me that you got hard from watching me. Thanks for that, by the way. I wasn’t alone, it was very awkward.”

Derek grins and stretches out, moving his laptop. “Glad to be of service. And I’m not wearing anything, _by the way_ ,” he says, and Dex makes this really delightful choking noise.

“Shit. Seriously?”

“No,” Derek admits. “Hang on.”

He yanks his shirt off and pushes his sweats down as fast as he can—which is pretty fast, he’s basically a professional at changing clothes—and picks up the phone again.

“Okay, now it’s the truth. What are _you_ wearing?” he asks, and Dex doesn’t say anything. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Just my, uh—just my Under Armour,” he says, and Derek’s eyes fall shut.

That means he’s still at the _rink_ …god, he’s probably in a supply closet or something. That should not be hot, but it so, so is.

Hockey and sex have always been very separate pieces of Derek’s brain—he’s been in a _lot_ of locker rooms and has never been even remotely turned on—but he thinks he could make an exception for Dex.

“Fuck,” he says plainly. “That’s hot.”

“You’re hot.”

“Nice one.”

“Stop—stop fucking chirping me.”

Derek smiles, lazy, and brings both knees up. “Up your game, Poindexter.”

It’s quiet between them, but just listening to Dex’s soft, hitching breaths is plenty enough for Derek. His breath starts to come faster, riling Derek up along with it, until Dex groans, clearly trying to be quiet, and falls silent.

Derek grins. “Did you just fucking _come_?”

“Shut up.” Dex sounds like he’s trying to be annoyed, but it’s coming out as satisfied and soft instead. “Adrenaline, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek says dryly, even though he definitely does know. “That was like, really fast, dude.”

“Can you just take it as a compliment and never bring this up again?”

“Probably not,” Derek says honestly, and Dex groans.

“I hate you.”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Derek says, sing-song, “you—” He cuts himself off and swallows. “You definitely don’t hate me.”

“No,” Dex says softly. “Are you close?”

He sounds different now, firmer and more insistent, and Derek closes his hand around his dick and sits up a little bit. “Yeah,” he says, and Dex hums.

“I wish I were there.”

“What would you do?”

Derek tries really hard to keep his voice from shaking, and he’s about 70 percent successful.

“I’d watch. Watch you jerk off, just like you’re doing right now.”

Just the thought of it, the thought of Dex sitting at the end of the bed, maybe fully dressed, just watching him, makes heat rush to Derek’s face. “Really?” he asks, stroking faster now. Part of him wants to draw it out, but another, much larger, more insistent part of him just wants to fucking come. “Just watch?”

“Uh-huh.” Dex sounds like he as all the time in the world right now, and Derek hates it. “Maybe with you on top of me, so I can watch you come on me, come on my abs.”

Derek does, imagining it, curling up with a sharp inhale as he spills over his fingers, dripping down onto his stomach. “Fuck, god.”

Derek sinks into the afterglow, enjoying the comforting sound of Dex’s breath in his ear.

“So, worth your while, huh?” Dex asks, the grin very much audible in his voice.

“Oh, fuck you,” he says, laughing. “I’m in bed, I get to go to sleep, what do you have to go do right now?”

Dex groans. “Don’t remind me,” he says, and Derek smiles.

“Congrats. Seriously.”

“Thank you. If this is what I get, I guess I need to score more hat tricks.”

“Yeah, I’m hanging up on you now.”

* * *

The next week, the Habs head out on a three-city road trip that ends in Boston. Chowder’s sitting next to him on the bench after warm-ups, and he bumps their shoulders together. “Excited to play against loverboy?” he asks under his breath, grinning, and Derek hates him.

“I’m gonna fucking destroy him,” Derek vows.

He’s played in this area before but not against the Bruins, of course, and it’s even better than he imagined. The crowd hates them, _vociferously_ , and it’s awesome. It’s nothing like the roar of the Montreal crowd, but hearing TD go practically silent when Derek scores is cool in a totally different way.

He has to skate right past Dex to get back to the bench, and he forcibly stops himself from jostling him. Dex would know it’s a joke, but the other Bruins probably wouldn’t, and Derek would really rather this _not_ turn into a bloodbath. His face is too pretty to get punched.

The Habs win 2-1, and as excited as they are to have another win in the name of playoff contention, it’s even better to get one against Boston, on their turf.

Derek was hoping to do something with Dex afterward, maybe actually get a chance to _talk_ about whatever the fuck is going on between them, but Jack and Holster inform him that they’re going out with Ransom and Dex. It would be a little too awkward for both of them to duck out, probably, so…whatever.

They go to some tiny, hole-in-the-wall place that Ransom knows, a place where no one gives a shit that two Bruins are hanging out with three Habs. The food is good, though, and Derek wolfs his down while ignoring the fact that Dex is sitting across from him.

It sucks.

He’s not the best at dealing when things don’t go his way, and he was really looking forward to some uninterrupted time with Dex tonight. He won’t lie—the possibility of an orgasm was tempting, sure, but he also wanted to _talk_ , he swears. It’s not like they get a lot of opportunities to talk in person, without other people around.

It’s an unseasonably mild evening for late winter in Boston, so they all walk back to the hotel where the Habs are staying. He and Dex fall behind Holster and Ransom and Jack, walking a little slower and pausing to look in random store windows.

“Favorite TV show,” he says, and Dex hums.

“Of all time? Parks and Rec, I guess.”

“Never seen it.”

Derek is used to, like, _outraged_ comments when he says that, but Dex just laughs.

“Really? You’d like it, it’s funny.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will. But it’s been so long, now I feel like I have to wait for a special occasion or something, you know? Like I have to save it. Maybe when I get the flu or something.” Derek winces. “Now that I say it out loud, it sounds dumb.”

“A little weird, maybe,” Dex says, smirking, “but not dumb.”

Derek socks him in the shoulder.

They turn the corner, onto the block where their hotel is, and Dex almost trips over a little kid.

It’s a girl, maybe five or so, who’s wearing a Bruins jersey and staring up at Dex, wide-eyed and completely silent. Derek smiles, because it’s really cute, and the kid’s mom, who looks more than a little starstruck herself, puts her hands on her shoulders and tries to steer her away.

“I’m so sorry,” she says to Dex, with a little laugh. “She’s a really big fan of yours.”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” Dex says as he drops to a crouch in front of the kid. “Hey, there. What’s your name?”

Derek hangs back, since they don’t seem to recognize him, and watches as Dex signs the kid’s jersey and puts an arm around her for the mom to take a picture. She thanks him profusely, and the kid even gives him a little wave before they turn the corner.

“You could really clean up with moms, you know,” Derek says, and Dex rolls his eyes. He’s probably blushing, but Derek’s unfortunately missing it because it’s dark.

“I’m 20.”

“She didn’t care how old you were when she was staring at your ass.”

Dex huffs and tries to look affronted. “She was not.”

“Uh, she absolutely was,” Derek retorts.

“Jealous?”

“No,” Derek lies.

* * *

Derek can smell something delicious as soon as he steps off the elevator, something that seems to be coming from Jack’s place, and he sniffs appreciatively while he rummages for his keys. Maybe Shitty’s back, that would be awesome. He could totally go for some of that fried rice right now.

Derek lets himself in and at the kitchen doorway, stops in his tracks. Eric, the dude from the bakery, is cooking something on the stove, and Jack is leaning on the counter next to him, looking entirely besotted. They both have wine glasses, there’s music playing, and it is so painfully, obviously clear that this is a date.

There are a lot of actions Derek could take— _leave_ being the most obvious—but he blurts out a “hi” instead.

They both whip their heads around to look at him, and Jack takes an exaggerated step away.

“Hey,” Jack says. He crosses his arms over his chest for a second and then drops them, going for his pockets instead. He’s clearly trying to sound casual and doing a terrible job at it. “I thought, uh, you and Chowder were getting dinner.”

Derek blinks. “We were, he—he cancelled because he’s not feeling well.”

No one says anything, and it’s possibly the most awkward moment of Derek’s life. There are _no_ words in his head, he has no idea what to say. He keeps thinking of things and then rejecting them. He needs to be _supportive_ , he needs to—

It’s Eric who breaks the silence first. He flicks the burner off and wipes his hands on a dishtowel. “I’m gonna go.”

“No!” Derek blurts out. “Please don’t. I need to, uh, shower, I went for a run earlier, and I’ll just be totally out of your hair. Please don’t leave.”

He shoots them a _thumbs up_ , of all things—at least it wasn’t finger guns—and hightails it toward his room.

Derek showers, because that part wasn’t a lie, and paces around his room. _Wow_. Jack. He never would’ve…wow. He thinks it’s awesome, obviously, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t surprising.

He texts Dex, just continuing their conversation from earlier. He wants to tell him about Jack, but he obviously doesn’t. Not that—Derek doesn’t even know how that conversation would go, actually, it’s not like he and Dex have ever really talked about what they’re doing or what it means or how they identify, or whatever. What if…what if Dex is _insanely_ in the closet, or worse, what if there’s some secret underground network of not-straight NHL players, and Dex is hooking up with all of them?

Wow, Derek really can’t think about that right now.

He passes a couple hours watching Netflix in bed, and eventually he starts to reconsider his plan of hiding out in his room forever. He’s really hungry, for one, and also, he and Jack should probably talk about this sometime.

Eric’s probably gone by now, right? It’s kind of late and they have a game tomorrow—Jack seems like the type of guy who would have rules about that.

Finally, the grumbling in his stomach wins out.

He pokes his head out of his bedroom, but he doesn’t hear any talking. Or…any other noises that he was maybe worried about hearing and also trying not to think about.

Jack’s in the living room, alone, reading on the couch, and Derek walks into the kitchen, trying hard to act normal. “Hey,” he calls out. “I’m making a PBJ, you want anything?”

He peers over the breakfast bar to see Jack shake his head, and Derek busies himself with the bread and the toaster. A PBJ and a protein shake probably isn’t the _best_ dinner, but it’ll do.

He sits in the big armchair, his usual spot in the living room, and starts eating. Jack’s still reading, but it looks like he’s just putting on a display of normalcy exactly like Derek is.

Derek has no idea how to play this. He can’t _ignore_ it, obviously, but should he treat it as if he walked in on Jack with a girl or…

He tries a shit-eating grin and jerks his chin toward the door. “So he’s adorable.”

Jack flushes—which is _also_ adorable, fair’s fair—and rubs at the back of his neck. “Oh, god. Don’t—”

“I’m not making fun of you,” he hurries to say. “I swear. I think it’s cool.”

“You think it’s _cool_ ,” Jack repeats, clearly not impressed, and Derek winces.

“I just, uh. You have my full support. A thousand percent. That’s what I mean.”

Jack looks at him for a second, that hard, familiar stare, and then relaxes just a tiny bit. “Thanks.”

“Who knows?” he asks, not to pry, but because that seems like useful information to know.

Jack shakes his head. “Not, uh—not very many people. Shitty, Holster, a couple others.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Derek says, probably belatedly. That seems obvious, to him, but Jack would probably appreciate hearing it.

“Good,” Jack says, and then it falls silent. Derek tries to just ride it out, wolfing down his sandwich and taking a loud slurp from his protein shake, but he can’t take it much longer.

“Poindexter and I hooked up at the All-Star Game,” he blurts out. It’s not the greatest idea, probably, but he really just wants to get that sad, worried look off Jack’s face. And it works—Jack’s jaw drops.

“What? Seriously?”

Derek nods. “We kind of have a, uh, a thing? I dunno, actually. It’s weird.”

“I thought you hated him.”

Derek laughs, humorless. “Yeah, so did I. But I, uh, _don’t_. At all. It’s complicated.”

“Wow.” Jack sits back and then makes a face. “He’s a _Bruin_ , Nursey.”

“I know, right? Terrible taste on my part.”

“He’s pretty good, though,” Jack admits, and Derek sighs, more forlorn than he’d prefer.

“Yeah.”

“So, uh, how’d it happen?” Jack asks, and Derek’s eyebrows go up. “Not like—” Jack shakes his head, his cheeks red again. “I don’t want to know those details. You know what I mean.”

Derek laughs. “I, uh, I don’t know, man. We met at the draft, and it just…it was weird, you know? Finally meeting him, after kinda hating him for so long and assuming that he would feel the same way.”

“But he didn’t,” Jack prompts, and Derek shakes his head.

“No,” he says slowly. “No, he didn’t. We started talking, and I dunno, just stayed in touch.”

“Is that who you’re always texting?” Jack asks, and Derek nods. He knows it’s somewhat obvious, or at least, obvious enough that a bunch of guys on the team are convinced that he has a secret girlfriend.

“Yeah. It’s, uh, he’s really supportive. We just…he gets it, you know?”

“Are we not supporting you enough?” he asks, serious captain face on, and Derek shakes his head.

“No, c’mon, you know it’s not like that. It’s just—” He shrugs. “We go through the same shit at the same time, you know, as rookies, high draft picks, whatever. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about it.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack fiddles with the cover of his paperback, bending it back and forth. “And what about the, uh, the other stuff? What’s going on with that?”

Derek forces himself to laugh and sucks down the rest of his protein shake. “Fuck, dude, I dunno. We don’t—I have no idea what’s going on there.”

“You could _talk_ about it,” Jack says dryly, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Ah, yes, thank you for such sage advice. I’ll get right on that, in all the spare time that we have together.”

Jack looks less than impressed with that excuse—although it’s _true_ , Jesus—and Derek needs to get back to the initial point of this conversation.

“Okay, enough about me. Tell me about what’s going on with you and Eric.”

Jack straightens up and slides his gaze away. “I don’t know.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “You know that I _saw_ you, right?” he says, and Jack makes a face.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Sixty seconds was more than enough to see those heart-eyes, on both sides. Are you guys dating, or what?”

“Um.” Jack looks profoundly uncomfortable, and Derek feels a little bad for pushing it. But not _too_ bad, mostly because it’s nice to see Jack dealing with something outside of hockey. “I’m not sure. Sort of, I think.”

“Why don’t you talk about it?” Derek suggests, sickly-sweet, and Jack throws a pillow at him.

“Very funny.”

“But seriously.” Derek stands up and checks the chair for crumbs. “Just talk to him, it’s obvious that he likes you.”

“Take your own advice,” Jack shoots back.

“Maybe I will,” he says haughtily, and Jack laughs. “And hey, if _you_ ever wanna talk…I’m here, you know.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s face softens into a smile, and he looks a hell of a lot more relaxed than he did 20 minutes ago. Derek likes it. “You, too.”

Derek gets ready for bed and fiddles with his phone, thinking about what he wants to say to Dex.

**Derek:** So Jack knows  
  
**Derek:** About what happened  
  
**Derek:** Sorry, it's a long story  
  
**Derek:** But he's cool with it, I swear  
  
**Dex:** Ok  
  
**Dex:** I trust you

Derek stares at that last text for longer than he’d like to admit.

* * *

Derek’s heart sinks as soon as it happens.

He gets tangled up against the boards, going down to his knees under the unfairly large bulk of the Pens’ defenseman, right in the middle of the scrum for the puck. Someone finally gets it, and Derek gets back to his feet as quickly as he can to follow the play, but a sharp pain shoots up from his ankle as he pushes off his left foot.

He grits his teeth and ignores the pain as much as possible to finish the shift, but when he gets back to the bench, Liz, one of the trainers, stops him before he can sit down. “Was that your ankle? What happened?”

“I’m fine, I promise.” He tries to scoot by her. But she steps in front of him, her glare hardening, and he gives in. “It hurts,” he says honestly, and she grabs his elbow.

“C’mon, then.”

“But—”

Derek digs his feet in, or attempts to, at least, because for such a small woman, Liz is stunningly strong.

“But what? There’s two minutes left, and we’re up by three. You’re coming with me, stop arguing.”

“Fine,” Derek acquiesces sharply, as if he ever had a say in this at all, and Liz helps him limp down the tunnel toward the training room.

Getting his skate off is agony, but focusing on the pain is better than letting his brain spin off in a thousand unsavory directions—broken ligaments, sprains, weeks off, playoffs, surgery, his Calder hopes vanishing into thin air.

He zones out, trying to breathe and calm down, while Liz does whatever she does.

“Okay,” she says several minutes later, with a note of finality in her voice, and Derek’s head snaps up.

“Okay? Okay, what?”

“Looks like just a mild sprain. But it’s pretty swollen right now, so I’m gonna need you to come in tomorrow so I can look at it again.”

“ _Just_ a sprain? That’s good, right?”

“Relatively, yes,” she agrees, and Derek exhales.

“Awesome. How long?”

Liz’s face softens, and she pats his shin. “Depends how it looks tomorrow. Probably about a week.”

Derek blows out a breath. A week. He can handle a week.

She wraps his ankle and gives him crutches, which is shitty, but at least he gets out of doing media, which is awesome. Showering is an adventure, trying to keep balanced, and he’s even more exhausted than normal but the time he’s finally dressed.

He hobbles out of the locker room and sees Jack, leaning against the wall.

“I went home and got the car,” he says, spinning his keys around his finger, and Derek’s more relieved than he can say. Jack’s apartment is pretty close to the rink and they walk when the weather’s nice, but Derek definitely needs a ride home.

“Great, thanks.”

Jack slows to keep pace with Derek and nods at his leg. “So what’s the verdict?”

“Just a sprain. Maybe a week, Liz said.”

Jack looks relieved. “That’s not too bad. But no road trip?”

Derek shakes his head. They team is leaving tomorrow night to go to Dallas and then Boston, but he’s already been told in no uncertain terms that he’s not going, he’s supposed to rest.

The drive home is short, but there’s traffic, and Derek fishes his phone out of his pocket, turning it on. A bunch of texts and missed calls come through, probably asking about his injury, but he ignores them all. He’s entitled to at least one night of wallowing, and hearing from everyone, no matter how supportive he knows they’ll be, isn’t part of that. He does text his moms, telling them that he’s okay and will call tomorrow, because he knows that they’ll worry whenever they hear about it, if they haven’t already.

As soon as the text goes through, he turns his phone off again and leans his head against the window.

* * *

Jack hovers as he packs up the following afternoon, in a very dad-like way, and Derek finally has to convince him that he’s really fine, that he’s perfectly capable of surviving for a few days on his own, even with a bum ankle.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Jack asks, for about the thousandth time. “The fridge is stocked, you have my parents’ number if there’s an emergency—”

“Jack.” Derek smiles at him because luckily, this over-protective behavior is as adorable as it is annoying. “I’m fine, I swear. Go, you don’t want to be late.”

Jack hesitates but finally nods. “Okay. Have a good night.”

“Good luck!” Derek calls out, and he exhales when Jack finally leaves.

But the door opens again just a few minutes later, and Derek doesn’t budge from his spot on the couch. “What’d you forget?” he calls out, and Jack snorts as he rounds the corner into the living room.

“There was a package for you, thought I’d bring it up so you didn’t have to go down there.”

“Oh.” Jack drops the smallish box on the coffee table, and Derek stares at it curiously. “Thanks, man.”

Jack leaves again with a wave, but Derek mostly ignores him in favor of staring at the package.

It’s addressed to him, but the return address is just Amazon, and Derek frowns. He doesn’t remember ordering anything. He picks it up and shakes it, but that gives no clue as to what’s inside.

Is he famous enough that he should worry about mysterious packages just showing up at his address?

He decides no and heaves himself up to hobble toward the kitchen. He rifles through the junk drawer for the scissors and carefully slices open the box, lifting out the bubble wrap.

It’s the full box set of Parks and Rec, all seven seasons, and Derek just stares at it for a few minutes, his hands braced on the counter, because that’s…wow.

Once he’s over the initial shock, he sets it up playing on the TV and finds his phone, still in his jacket pocket from last night. Just saying “thanks” seems both too much and not enough, somehow.

There are a few texts from Dex from last night, asking how he is, and Derek sends back “better now,” along with a photo of his wrapped foot propped up on a pillow on the coffee table, with Parks and Rec on the TV in the background.

**Dex:** Glad to hear it  
  
**Derek:** No road trip, though  
  
**Derek:** You gonna miss me?  
  
**Dex:** Nope  
  
**Dex:** They’re way easier to beat without you  
  
**Derek:** Fuck you

Dex just sends back the shrug emoji, and in spite of himself, Derek laughs.

A FaceTime call comes through just a minute later, and Derek pauses the TV before answering. The video connects, and Derek blinks. Dex lives with the Bruins’ captain, and Derek has seen pictures of an older kid on Instagram, but—

“I didn’t know Murph had a baby.”

“Yeah.” Dex smiles a little and looks down at the _baby lying on his chest_ , what the hell. It is, admittedly, the cutest fucking thing that Derek has seen in his entire life. “Annabelle. She’s cute, right?”

“Very.”

“I’d make her say hello, but she’s asleep right now, miraculously.”

“Shit, should I—I mean, I can call back later,” he says, even though Dex definitely called him.

Dex shakes his head. “She sleeps best when the vacuum cleaner is on, of all things, so I think this’ll be fine.”

Derek knows exactly nothing about babies and their sleeping habits, but he’ll take Dex’s word for it.

“How old is she?”

“Ten months.”

Derek laughs. “So they got a baby and a rookie in the same year?” he says, and Dex smiles.

“Yeah. I think I’m less work, at least. I hope so.”

“Do they make you babysit?”

“Oh, yeah. But it’s cool, I like kids."

Derek nods and tries to smile. He _likes kids_ , what the hell is Derek supposed to do with that? Jesus.

He gestures. “You seem pretty popular as like, a sleeping surface.”

“That’s the easiest part.”

Dex shifts Annabelle to his other arm, and Derek zones out just a little. Dex has a tank on, and the low light is really accentuating the bunch of his bicep, especially when he bounces her just a little. After a few seconds, Derek blinks and refocuses on Dex’s face. It feels inappropriate to perv on someone who’s holding an infant.

“So what’s the verdict?”

“Huh?” Derek asks, still a little distracted, and Dex smiles.

“Your leg.”

“Oh! Right.” The Habs are probably being publicly cagey about his injury. “Uh, it’s my ankle. But it’s just a sprain, thank fuck. I should only miss a few games.”

“That’s great,” Dex says. “We’re coming back to Montreal on Saturday, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Derek says, as if he hasn’t had that date memorized for weeks.

“Will you be playing by then?” he asks, and Derek shrugs.

“I hope so. That’s right on the line, of what they told me, at least.”

Dex nods. “I hope you’re back.”

“Really?” Derek drawls. “You sure about that?”

“Sure. I’m not a _total_ asshole.”

Dex grins, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“You’ll take that back when I score on you.”

Dex laughs at that, annoyingly, and then his face morphs into something serious.

“But—uh, for next Saturday.” He coughs. “Could we, um, talk? After?”

He says it in this oddly formal tone, and combined with the way he suddenly won’t meet Derek’s gaze, Derek’s pretty sure it isn’t anything good.

“Sure,” he forces himself to say, ignoring the weird frozen feeling in his chest. “Great.”

* * *

Derek watches the Habs games, because of course he does. The Bruins win, fuck them, and Dex scores _twice_. Derek hates everything, and he ignores all of Dex’s gloating texts afterward.

* * *

Derek’s ankle heals, pretty much right on schedule, but he’s not cleared yet when the Bruins come back to town. He pleaded with Liz the day before, but she just gave him a flat stare, completely unimpressed, and said _no_ , and that was that.

So Derek watches the game from the press box, which sucks. He’s antsy and restless just sitting there in his suit, staring down at his team. It’s one thing to watch them on TV, but it’s even weirder to see it in person. They win, though, so he can’t really complain.

He’s limping out to the parking lot when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he’s a tiny bit surprised that it’s Dex. “Hey, there.”

“Hi.”

Dex sounds tired, and Derek doesn’t even have the heart to chirp him. It was an ugly loss for the Bruins, 5-1, and Derek’s pretty sure Dex was on the ice for at least three of those goals. “Do you still, uh, still wanna meet up?”

“Course. I don’t have that long, though, we have a curfew and an early flight.”

“Yeah, um…” He trails off, thinking. Derek wants to see him, obviously, but he can’t exactly bring Dex back to Jack’s, and he’s sure as fuck not going to the Bruins’ hotel. “Can I just pick you up at the hotel? We’ll go somewhere?”

“Sure.” There’s a short burst of noise from Dex’s end, then it cuts off. “You okay to drive?”

“Yeah, it’s my left ankle.”

“Right,” Dex says, and Derek grins.

“No, it’s the left.”

“Okay,” Dex says, groaning, “if you’re good enough for terrible jokes then you’re fine.”

Derek laughs. “How long do you need? You guys at the Ritz?”

“Yeah. Like 45 minutes?”

“Okay, I’ll pick you up on the side street, on Drummond.”

“Okay,” Dex says softly, and Derek stays on the line for an extra second before he finally hangs up.

He has just enough time to drive home, change into comfier clothes, get something to eat, and then climb back in the car. The Ritz is only a handful of blocks from Jack’s building, and Dex is standing right on the corner, in jeans and a bomber jacket that’s way more stylish than anything else Derek has seen him wear.

He tells him so, as Dex climbs in the car, and Dex huffs. “Yeah,” he admits. “My sister bought it for me. Well, with my money, but still.”

“It’s nice.” Derek carefully looks over his other shoulder to merge back into traffic. “I like it.”

“Thanks. How’s the ankle?”

Derek makes a face. “Still sore. I could’ve played today, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“I was hoping that you would,” Dex says, and Derek smiles at him.

“You hungry?”

Dex shrugs. “I ate, but I could always eat again.”

Derek nods. He probably should have made a plan or something, but he’s been a little too fixated on fretting over whatever it is they’re going to be _talking_ about.

So he just drives for a little while, slowly winding his way out of downtown while Dex fiddles with the radio. It always takes him a bit to relax after such a bad loss, and he’s betting that Dex is the same.

It’s mostly silent, but it’s comfortable, and after a while Derek hangs an impulsive left and pulls into the parking lot of a Tim Horton’s.

“Giving me the full Montreal experience, huh?” Dex says, but he’s smiling now, so Derek will take it.

“Don’t hate on Timmy’s, man.” He parks and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Just stay here, I’ll go get it.”

“No, but your—”

“You probably shouldn’t show your face in this city right now.”

Dex rolls his eyes but takes his hand off the passenger-side door. “Fine.”

Derek carefully climbs out of the car and then sticks his head back in. “Can you have coffee this late?” he asks, and Dex shakes his head.

The dude behind the counter definitely recognizes him, his eyes widening as he looks up, but he doesn’t say anything and just fills Derek’s order. Derek smiles at him in thanks and stuffs a twenty in the tip jar, lifting a finger in a wave as he turns to leave.

Derek carefully balances both cups in one arm to open the car door and reaches in to hand Dex the bag. He opens it and laughs. “Timbits, wow. So the Canadian is catching, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up. Have you ever had one? They’re delicious. Hope you like chocolate glazed.”

“I do,” Dex says, already halfway through one, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Here.” He hands over one of the cups, and Dex takes an appreciative sniff.

“Hot chocolate? Awesome.”

They’ve gone through half a dozen Timbits, mostly in silence, before Derek finally works up the courage to say anything. He takes a swig of his own hot chocolate and clears his throat. “So what’d you wanna talk about?”

“I’ve been, uh, thinking.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

It’s a weak chirp, and Dex knows it, but he smiles faintly anyway.

“I don’t think—uh, I don’t think I can just keep hooking up or whatever when we’re in the same city.”

The words spill out of Dex in a rush, and when Derek looks over, his cheeks are visibly red, even in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.

“Oh.”

Derek feels…he doesn’t know how he feels. This is, admittedly, exactly what he was expecting in his worst case scenario, but what he _wasn’t_ expecting was the faint ache in his chest to hurt so bad. “Okay,” he tries again. “That’s fine. We can just, uh, you know, stop. I get it.”

Dex looks confused. “No, I—” Dex makes an irritated noise as he reaches for Derek’s arm and then stops himself. “Sorry, I’m not good at this. I want to, um, I want more than that. Like, to…to date you. If you want that.”

Derek blinks.

This wasn’t even his _best-case_ scenario, he wasn’t that optimistic.

“Wow,” he says, dumbly, and Dex reddens even further.

“Look, I know that it’s like, out of the blue or whatever, you don’t have to—”

“No,” Derek interrupts, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut. “I mean, yes. Yes, I want that, too.”

Dex stares at him for a second. “You…really?”

“Yeah.” Derek drops his gaze and picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “Like, exclusive?”

“Yeah. I mean, not that I’ve—” Dex cuts himself off and flushes. “Well, you know. This is embarrassing now.”

Derek cracks up. “Dude, it’s not like I have either.”

Dex gives him a side-eye, squinting a little. “Really?”

Derek shrugs. “I thought about it,” he admits. “But I’m fuckin’ tired all the time. And y’know, I’ve been kinda embarrassingly hooked on this one guy.”

Dex is laughing as he leans over the console, fisting a hand in Derek’s shirt to haul him forward. It’s their first sober kiss, which would be depressing if Derek really thinks about it, so he chooses not to.

Dex tastes a little like chocolate, and Derek gets eager, fumbling to set his cup in the cupholder so he can have both hands free to clutch at him. Dex pushes right back, sliding a hand into Derek’s hair, and honestly, thank god his windows are tinted.

“Long distance is gonna be shitty,” Dex says softly, and Derek nods.

“There’s—there’s always those four games we play every year.”

Dex kisses him again, lingering. “Bye weeks.”

“All-Star Games,” Derek mumbles into his mouth.

“Christmas break.”

“Summer.”

“Summer,” Dex repeats as he pulls back. “After playoffs.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Derek whispers, and Dex laughs. The Bruins only have to win one more game to clinch, with several games to go, and even though the Habs have a decent chance, it isn’t anywhere near a sure thing.

“Whoever loses first has to fly to the other city,” Dex proposes, and Derek grins.

“Throw in an expensive-ass dinner, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Dex nods, reaching for him again, and they just sit there for a little while, drinking their hot chocolate with their hands intertwined. It’s alarmingly cheesy, but there are also plenty of kissing breaks, and if Derek wasn’t a public figure in a public place, he’d haul Dex into the backseat.

Just when he’s starting to really think about it, public place be damned, Dex pulls back suddenly and fumbles for his phone in his pocket.

“Shit. Can you get me back in 15 minutes?”

Derek snorts and turns the key in the ignition. “Course.”

He makes it back to the Ritz in 12 and takes advantage of those extra minutes to brace a hand on Dex’s thigh and bring their mouths together again, kissing him lazily. “See you soon.”

“Good luck,” Dex whispers.

“But not too much,” he says, and Dex laughs.

“You know it.”

* * *

On the last day of the season, the Habs clinch their playoff spot. They do it with a win, which is a million times better than relying on someone else to lose, and they even get to do it at home.

The whole team goes out afterward, taking over most of a local bar, and really, the only thing that could make it better is if Dex were here.

Derek tells him so, shouting into the phone over the noise in the bar, and he can barely hear Dex’s laugh through the line. “Don’t get too drunk, call me tomorrow.”

“Bye!” Derek yells, then jumps on Holster. He’s maybe already a little drunk.

* * *

As the bottom seed in the East, the Habs get the privilege of playing the Pens. It’s the organization’s first trip to the playoffs in several years, and every time Derek steps outside, he swears that Montreal is _buzzing_.

Moving up to the NHL was an expected jump—everyone stronger, faster, _better_ —but the playoffs are a whole different animal. Everything’s been turned up about 20 percent, and Derek is worn down to the very end after every game. The hits are meaner, the shots are harder, the plays are faster.

And the Pens are really fucking good.

The Habs are underdogs, for sure, but they play really well, even if they drop the first two games. The scores are close, though, and the games are hard-fought enough that everyone’s mood is high for game three, back in their own barn.

They ride the euphoria of the home crowd to a decisive 5-1 win, and Derek scores, and it’s probably one of the top three moments of his life.

Game four goes less well. They lose in truly gut-wrenching fashion, 4-3 in OT, and then they have to go back to Pittsburgh.

Game five isn’t even close, a fucking shutout, and Derek kind of wants to throw up as he moves through the handshake line on autopilot, the raucous Pens crowd grating against his ears.

The mood in the locker room is somber, to say the least. It’s not even _their_ locker room, it’s dingy and sort of shitty, and everyone seems torn between dawdling and hurrying the fuck up so they can get out of there.

Derek’s phone buzzes, probably yet another consolatory message. He ignores it, like he has been for the past 10 minutes, but when it keeps buzzing, his eyes flick down, out of habit, and catch on the hockey stick emoji. He grabs it and hightails it into the hallway.

“What the fuck,” he hisses into the phone. “Aren’t you _playing_?”

“Intermission,” Dex says easily, as if that makes it any more normal for him to be calling right now, in the middle of his game six against the Leafs. “I just saw, Derek, I’m sorry.”

Derek clenches his eyes shut and rubs his thumb over his eyebrow. “Yeah,” he gets out, his voice tight. “Fucking sucks.” There’s a lot of noise on Dex’s side, and he definitely shouldn’t be on the phone right now. “You should—just go, okay? Go and win.”

“Call me when you get home, okay? I don’t care when.”

“Yeah,” Derek lies. He probably won’t upset Dex’s sleep schedule during the playoffs. “Thanks for calling, really. Good luck.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Dex says softly, then he’s gone.

* * *

Two nights later, Derek sits with Jack and Bitty—“no one calls me Eric,” he said—on the couch and watches the Bruins celebrate winning game seven in Toronto. Part of him is glad, obviously, because he wants Dex to be happy, and he looks really fucking happy right now. He looks hot, too, getting interviewed on the ice after the game, even with his gross, sweaty helmet hair and the way he spews hockey cliches like it’s his job.

“Really? That guy?” Jack asks, a faint smile on his face, after Dex says something about “pucks to the net” for like the third time, and Derek throws a pillow at him.

“Shut your face. Like you’re any better.”

“I’m afraid that’s true, sweetie,” Bitty says, and Jack makes a faux-offended noise.

Derek tunes out their bantering, adorable as it is, and watches Dex skate away from the interviewer and get mobbed by his team again.

So yeah, Derek’s happy. But he’s also jealous and kind of bitter and maybe a little sad.

But he’s an emotionally mature adult now, he can handle two conflicting feelings at the same time. Even if it sucks.

* * *

Derek’s back in New York for the second round, hanging out with his moms and eating a lot and doing basically nothing else.

Besides watching the games, that is.

Dex plays great, and the Bruins take it to game seven again, but they lose, 3-1. Derek’s heart hurts as he watches Dex skate off, his stick braced on his thighs, and he calls three times until Dex picks up, at close to one in the morning.

It’s quiet on the line for a while, until Derek finally says, “Fuckin’ Buffalo, man,” and Dex scoffs.

“Fuckers.”

“Are you ready for all that dumb shit people say, like ‘well at least you had a great season’ or ‘you’ll get ‘em next year’?”

Dex actually laughs a little bit at that, so Derek’s considering it a win.

“Try me tomorrow.”

“You got it.” Derek flips over in bed onto his other side and yawns. “But you did, you know. You had a really great season.”

“Thanks.”

“And you did win the playoff bet fair and square, so…”

He trails off, and Dex laughs. “That I did. So when are you coming to Boston?”

“Whenever you want.”

Dex hums. “As much as I want you here, like, tomorrow,” he says, and Derek’s traitorous heart clenches, “maybe give me like a week? Is that okay?”

“You got it. I’ll get a flight tomorrow.”

“Text me the details so I can pick you up at the airport.”

“Can’t wait,” Derek says, and he’s probably never meant anything more.

* * *

A week later, Derek hurries through Logan, his hoodie up and his plain black baseball cap tugged low over his eyes. Any diehard Bruins fan who would recognize him would probably also hate him, so better safe than sorry.

Derek walks down the line of cars idling on the curb outside until he spots Dex waving to him. He waves back and pulls open the passenger-side door.

“Hi.”

Derek doesn’t know if he’s supposed to lean in for a kiss or not. He knows what he _wants_ to do, but there are a lot of people around, so he settles for a smile instead. Dex smiles back. “Hey. How was your flight?”

“Fine. I like your car,” Derek says, patting the dash. He’s pretty sure it’s a Toyota. “Very flashy.”

Dex rolls his eyes and looks over his shoulder to merge back into traffic. “It’s practical,” he mutters, and Derek laughs.

He’s excited to be back in Boston, and he watches the familiar scenery slip by. Dex doesn’t head toward Storrow, though, and Derek frowns as he navigates the narrow streets.

“I thought Murph lived in the ‘burbs.”

“He does.” Dex turns into a parking garage and waits for the gate to open, his thumb drumming on the steering wheel. “I don’t anymore.”

Derek’s jaw drops. “Holy shit, you got your own place! You didn’t tell me.”

Dex shrugs, though there’s a tiny smile on his face. “Figured you were gonna see it soon. It’s only been a couple weeks.”

“Wow. Congrats, man.”

“Thanks. Have you thought about that at all? Are you gonna keep living with Jack?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know yet. We did pretty well together, and we’ve talked about it. But Chowder and I might get a place, or maybe I’ll go on my own. I dunno, I need to figure that shit out.”

Dex pulls into a numbered spot and snatches Derek’s bag out of the backseat before he can grab it. “C’mon.”

Dex’s apartment is on the 12th floor, and Derek is utterly shameless about walking around and poking into everything. It’s spacious but not ostentatiously huge, and only half-furnished. It’s a nice place, though, with high ceilings and finishes that even Derek can tell are probably expensive.

“How many bedrooms?”

“Just two,” Dex says. He’s leaning against the doorjamb in the kitchen, watching Derek open the fridge.

Derek nods and runs his hand across the countertop. There’s a breakfast bar but no stools yet. “I like it. Even though I don’t know anything about real estate,” Derek admits, and Dex laughs.

“I don’t, either, I just used a realtor that they recommended and let her show me things.”

“Why’d you pick this one?”

Dex shrugs. “I liked the big windows. I can walk to TD. And the bathroom is really nice.”

“The bathroom?” Derek says, laughing, and Dex huffs.

“It’s a really great bathroom!”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Derek walks toward the wall of windows in the living room. It really is an awesome view, and there’s even a nice balcony, although it doesn’t have any furniture on it at the moment.

There are two framed #24 jerseys leaning against the wall in the dining nook, a UMaine one and a USA one that must be from World Juniors, the one Derek had to skip when he got the flu. Not that he’s still bitter about that or anything.

“You should hang those,” he points out.

“I can’t decide where. What do you think?”

Derek hums and looks around. “I dunno. Guest room? Or your bedroom, I guess, if you need, like, constant reminders of your greatness.”

“That’s what I have you for,” Dex says with a smirk, and Derek glares at him.

“Good luck getting a compliment out of me ever again.”

Dex laughs, his cheeks pinking up just the slightest bit, and Derek swallows. He’s very aware that they haven’t kissed yet, that they haven’t kissed in a _while_ , but he also knows that once he starts doing that, he’s not going to want to stop.

He takes a pointed step back. “You have a clean suit?” he asks, and Dex frowns at him.

“I—of course I do. Why?”

“Part of the bet was an expensive dinner, remember? I gotta pay up.”

Dex’s eyes go wide for a second, then the corners of his mouth turn up in a quiet smile. “Well, I can’t say no to that. You have a place in mind?”

“Yep.” Derek looks over Dex’s shoulder at the clock on the cable box. “Our reservation’s at seven, and I need to take a shower. Can I use the famous bathroom?”

Dex pretends to think about it. “I guess so,” he says, and Derek socks him in the shoulder. “C’mon.”

“Wow,” he says as he steps inside. The bathroom really _is_ nice, shit. Marble everywhere, nice tile, two vanities, and a giant shower that has a tub _inside_ it, beyond the shower part.

“Told you,” Dex says smugly. “The towels are in that cabinet.”

There are like, a thousand shower heads, all with amazing water pressure, and Derek entertains a quick fantasy of being able to relax in here after a game. That leads into a less-quick fantasy of relaxing in here _with Dex_ after a game, and then Derek has to give his dick a stern talking-to. His flight was a little delayed, and he unfortunately doesn’t have time for that right now, as nice as it would be to take the edge off.

Dex has fancy body wash but drugstore shampoo, which Derek needs to fix. He makes do, though, and as soon as he turns the water off, there’s a knock at the door.

“What?” he yells.

“Tie?” Dex calls out, and Derek thinks about it. They wear enough ties.

“No!”

Derek gets dressed and finds Dex in the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch and messing with his phone. He’s wearing a light gray suit with an open-necked white shirt, and Derek stares for a minute before Dex notices him and jerks his head up. He kind of gulps, which is pretty flattering, and stands up, stuffing his phone blindly into his pocket. “You, uh, look very nice.”

Derek smiles. “Thanks, so do you.” He steps closer and tucks his hands underneath Dex’s jacket. “You should eat up tonight, you’re skinny.”

Dex sighs. “I haven’t been _skinny_ since I was like, 15.”

Skinny is a bit of a stretch, maybe, but Dex is definitely post-playoffs lean. Derek fits his palms across Dex’s chest and slides down to his abs, shamelessly groping him.

“I probably have 10 pounds on you right now.”

“You’ve had a two-week head start on bulking up again,” Dex says, with a sly little grin, and Derek gasps, mock-offended. He digs his fingers into Dex’s ribs, and Dex laughs as he tries to squirm away, his hands coming up to grab Derek’s wrists.

Derek leans back and lets his hands slip off Dex’s waist. “C’mon, we don’t wanna be late.”

Dex’s eyes narrow, and Derek grins. He’s fully prepared for Dex to call him out on being a tease, but Dex just reaches for his hand again and tangles their fingers together. “Okay,” he says simply. “Where are we going?”

“We can walk.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Well, you’ll find out when we get there.”

Dex stops pressing after that and lets Derek lead them to a tiny Italian restaurant on a cobblestone street in the North End.

“Wow,” he says with a laugh, after the hostess shows them to a tiny private room with a table set for two. “This is really nice.”

“I try,” Derek says smugly, and Dex rolls his eyes.

Their server is a young woman who either doesn’t know who they are or does a really good job of pretending that she doesn’t. They can’t have wine, which sucks—Derek will admit that’s the one benefit of Canada—but the food is good enough that Derek doesn’t really care.

When the bill comes, Dex reaches for his pocket, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Literally don’t even. You won the bet, don’t rub it in.”

Dex lets Derek pay without further complaint, and they stroll back to Dex’s apartment, their hands brushing as they stay close on the crowded streets. It’s a busy night in Boston, the streets full, and Derek enjoys the slight feeling of anonymity that it gives him. Not enough to like, hold Dex’s hand or anything, unfortunately, but still.

Dex strips off his jacket as soon as they get inside, tossing it over the back of a chair, and stretches. “I think I caught up on those 10 pounds.”

Derek swats him on the stomach with the back of his hand, making Dex groan. “Wanna watch something?”

“Sure. You pick.”

Derek grabs the Fire remote off the coffee table, flipping through the apps until he lands on Hulu. “Brooklyn 99?”

Dex shakes his head. “Never seen it.”

“ _What_?” Derek asks, appropriately outraged. He whips his head around to see Dex already horizontal on the couch, fussing with his sleeves.

“Oh, don’t pull that, you hadn’t seen Parks and Rec.”

Derek huffs and starts the first episode before stretching out next to Dex. His couch is huge, plenty big enough for the both of them, which Derek appreciates. “I have now, though. Thanks to you.”

Dex groans a little bit and tucks his face into Derek’s neck. “That was probably really obvious.”

“Obvious of what?”

“Of my giant, embarrassing crush on you.”

“Oh, right, that,” Derek says, and Dex knees him in the thigh in a way that doesn’t feel very accidental. “Ow, fuck you. And I was obsessed with you, too, it’s fine.”

Dex groans again, and Derek rearranges them until Dex is facing the TV and Derek is spooned up behind him. “You have to watch.”

“Okay, okay, I’m watching.”

Derek wraps his arm around him, just resting his hand on Dex’s stomach. His skin is warm even through the fabric, and eventually Derek tucks his thumb in between two of the buttons on his shirt. He isn’t wearing an undershirt, and all of Derek’s brainpower focuses on the tiny point of heat where their bare skin is touching. He slides one of the buttons through the hole, as gently as he can, in search of more skin.

When Derek has his shirt half-unbuttoned, Dex finally makes a noise, a little choked-off groan that Derek is inordinately proud of.

“I thought you wanted me to watch.”

“What exactly am I doing that’s stopping you from doing that?” He punctuates his words with a kiss behind Dex’s ear, and Dex grumbles.

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Dex doesn’t move, though, which Derek takes as tacit permission to keep going. He finishes with the buttons and slides his hand into Dex’s shirt, drifting up to his chest and sliding his thumb over Dex’s nipple.

Dex makes another noise and wiggles a little bit, like maybe it’s ticklish, but he slumps back, resting more of his weight against Derek. Derek stops for a few minutes, attempting to actually pay attention to the episode, but the warmth of Dex’s skin under his hands is too tempting.

He skims down Dex’s abs to the waistline of his pants and then back up, trying to keep his touch light but not ticklish. After about the tenth sweep, Dex squirms onto his back and pulls Derek partway on top of him. “Jesus fuck, c’mere.”

Derek’s laughing when they finally kiss, and Dex’s hand comes up to his face, changing the angle and then slipping back into his hair. His grip on the nape of Derek’s neck is deliciously firm, keeping him in place, and Derek tries to kiss him as thoroughly as he knows how.

Dex immediately reaches down to yank Derek’s shirt out of his pants, and the strength in his hand as he reaches up and under to clutch at his low back reminds Derek that he needs Dex on top of him like, yesterday. He manages to switch their positions, rolling to the side, and Dex goes with it without question, without breaking the kiss.

And bonus, Dex’s ass is just _right there_ , and Derek worms his hand under his unfairly tight pants to grab at it. Dex hisses a little as he grinds down, and the uncomfortable feel of their belt buckles isn’t enough to deter Derek.

“C’mon,” Dex says into his mouth. “Bed.”

“I would,” Derek says, unwilling to move his hand from Dex’s ass, “but this guy is kinda on top of me, y’know?”

Dex groans and gets his hands underneath him, pushing up to his knees. “C’mon,” he says again, and Derek sits up, grabbing for Dex again and getting their mouths back together before he’s even upright. He pushes Dex back blindly, trying to keep one arm outstretched so they don’t walk into a wall or anything.

The hardwoods under Derek’s feet turn to carpet as they cross the threshold into Dex’s bedroom, and he shoves the shirt off Dex’s shoulders, grabbing it behind his back and tossing it to the side before either of them can trip over it.

Dex tugs impatiently at Derek’s shirt. “Shit, why are you still—” He cuts himself off with a groan and fumbles with the buttons.

“C’mon, show me those soft hands,” Derek goads, and Dex pulls back to laugh.

“Shut up or I’ll rip it.”

Derek shuts up because he really likes this shirt, and Dex finally gets it undone and off. “Finally,” he murmurs, hauling Derek close. The warm, bare skin of Dex’s chest against his is almost too much sensation for him to handle, especially when Dex wraps his strong arm around Derek’s back to hold him there.

Getting their pants off while pressed so closely together is basically an exercise in futility, but they manage, shoving them down into a pile and stepping away, closer to the bed. Derek should maybe care about wrinkles and hangers, but he 100 percent does not.

Derek keeps pushing until the backs of Dex’s legs hit the bed, and he falls back. Dex attempts to pull him down, but Derek resists it and drops to his knees instead, fitting his shoulders between Dex’s legs.

“Fuck, Derek, _fuck_. You don’t—”

Derek ignores his protests, since he’s not actually telling him to stop, and yanks Dex’s briefs down as far as he can and fits his mouth around him with exactly zero preamble.

Dex shouts, the corded muscles of his thighs twitching under Derek’s hands, and his hands flutter around, stroking over Derek’s hair and curving over his ear before finally settling on his shoulders. “Derek, I can’t…fuck, that feels good.”

He hums and keeps going, trying to find a rhythm with his hand. Dex is the perfect size, enough to feel like he’s working for it but not too much to be uncomfortable, and Derek’s eyes slide shut. He could probably do this forever, at least until he’s jerked out of his reverie by Dex shoving at his shoulder, hard.

Derek pulls back, just using his hand, and lets his other hand drift toward the bulge in his own boxers. He’s so hard, and just the quick squeeze of his fingers helps with the pressure, although the sounds Dex is making aren’t really helping.

He slides the pad of his thumb over the tip one more time, and Dex comes, curving forward with a little sob, his grip on Derek’s shoulder turning almost painful. “Holy shit,” he says, drawing out the sound. “Der, that was—”

Derek cuts him off, stretching up to kiss him, and Dex brings both hands to his face. He stands, without breaking the kiss, and helps Dex scoot back, all the way onto the bed, on his back.

“Lemme—”

Dex reaches for him, levering up on one elbow, but Derek shakes his head and presses him back down. He swings a leg over Dex’s thighs and settles there, ignoring the faint ache in his knees.

“No, I’m—just really close, and I, uh…I just need to—”

Derek is practically dizzy with it, and he lets out a harsh, relieved exhale when he shoves his boxers down and finally wraps his fingers around his dick. His hand is plenty wet enough, with spit and Dex’s come, and he speeds up, his increasingly desperate need to come outweighing his desire to draw this out a little bit.

Dex grabs the back of Derek’s thighs for leverage and slides down, lifting his head. “C’mon, just—”

Just the _thought_ of it, and seeing Dex so eager, tips Derek over, and he comes all over Dex’s collarbone and cheek.

“Fuck,” he says, his gasp turning into laughter. “Sorry, Jesus.”

Dex laughs, too, and twists his head, wiping what he can off his face and onto the pillowcase. Derek slumps down next to him. His chest is pressed against Dex’s arm, and he must be able to feel the thumping of Derek’s heart.

The ceiling fan is whirring lazily, which feels good on Derek’s overheated skin. He shivers, and Dex swats his ass. “Get up.”

“No,” Derek says, stretching the word out with a groan. “Sleep.” He reaches for Dex, but Dex neatly rolls away.

“You’ll feel much better if you brush your teeth and actually get under the covers!” Dex calls out, and Derek makes a face.

He’s right, though, so he drags himself out of bed to brush his teeth and at least wipe himself off. He doesn’t bother putting any clothes back on, though, before he crawls back in next to Dex.

Dex flips the bedside lamp off and tucks Derek up against his side before pressing a firm kiss to his lips. Derek exhales and lets the back of his hand thump lazily against Dex’s stomach. “I’m really glad you put out on first dates.”

“Well, it was a really expensive dinner,” he says, and Derek laughs, even as he kicks him in the shin.

“Glad to know you’re easily bought.”

“Only for you, baby,” Dex says, in a faux-sweet voice, and Derek groans.

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

* * *

Derek nudges toward consciousness, the heavy tiredness still weighing down his limbs, and somehow, he can tell that he’s alone in bed. He stretches out an arm, just to make sure, and grumbles when he can’t feel anything besides cool sheets under his palm.

There are comfortable, domestic noises coming from the kitchen, though—a cabinet closing, the squeak of the fridge, maybe—and Derek lets his eyes drift closed again.

He floats for a while, in that pleasant, hazy space of half-sleep, and rouses again when the bed shifts. He scoots over, without opening his eyes, and Dex’s hand curves over his shoulder blade. His fingers are unnaturally hot, like he’s been carrying a warm mug, and Derek hums.

“You awake?”

“Yes,” Derek slurs, but he turns his face into Dex’s hip instead of opening his eyes.

“I have coffee.”

“I’m listening.”

Dex starts scratching at the nape of Derek’s neck, which provides exactly zero motivation to get moving anytime soon. But he finally maneuvers into a mostly-seated position and reaches over Dex for the mug on the nightstand. It’s pleasantly warm in his hands, even though he’s not cold, and he inhales before taking a sip.

It’s exactly how he likes it—cream, no sugar—and he lifts his eyebrows. “How’d you know how I take my coffee?”

Dex doesn’t meet Derek’s gaze, instead busies himself by turning on the TV and flipping to ESPN. “We, uh, got coffee that one time in Toronto. All-Star Game.”

“Wow.” Derek barely remembers that, actually, he was pretty sure it was just in the hotel or something, between interviews. “You’re just a total softie, aren’t you?”

Dex’s coffee mug is pretty big, but it’s not big enough to entirely cover his pink cheeks as he tries to hide behind it. “Don’t tell anyone, people think I’m tough.”

Derek laughs and sags against Dex, sipping his coffee as they watch SportsCenter. He hands Dex his empty mug when he’s done and then yawns, slipping down the bed a little. Dex’s hand comes back up to his neck, and Derek’s eyes slide to half-mast when he starts scratching again.

“You should go back to sleep,” Dex says, but Derek barely even registers the words.

* * *

The room is brighter when he wakes up again. The TV is still on, but Dex is behind him now, his arm wrapped around Dex’s waist, their hips flush. He’s awake, probably, based on the cadence of his breathing, and he’s also hard. Derek’s still naked from the night before, but Dex is wearing a pair of soft underwear.

“You can,” Derek murmurs, and Dex’s lips press against the back of his neck.

“I can what?”

Derek brings his top arm up under the pillow and wiggles his ass back against Dex. “Do whatever.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll be awake in about three minutes.”

Dex laughs, a tiny whisper of a sound, and his hand skims up Derek’s ribs. “I can wait.”

“Don’t,” Derek says softly, pushing back again.

Dex doesn’t pull back, but he doesn’t press forward, either. Derek holds himself carefully still. He knows it’s…it’s dumb, probably, but he wants Dex to just _get it_ instead of having a full-on conversation about this right now, while he’s very pleasantly half-asleep.

After what feels like an eternity, Dex shifts backward and lets his arm slide off Derek’s waist.

 _Fuck_.

But before he can thoroughly overthink what he should or shouldn’t have said, Dex is back, his grip harder on Derek’s hip and more importantly, his dick hot and hard and bare against the curve of Derek’s ass.

“Fuck,” he thinks again, much more satisfied this time, and he also says it out loud.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. Just…yeah.”

Dex uses his grip for leverage and grinds against him, the head of his dick bumping up against Derek’s low back. “Shit, you’re so—”

If Derek were more awake, he’d want to hear the end of that sentence. Instead he just hums and closes his eyes again, letting himself sink into the comfortable, aroused relaxation of having Dex behind him, getting off.

Dex isn’t loud, really, as in _talkative_ , but he keeps up a steady stream of very satisfied-sounding noises, all of which are going to Derek’s head. Especially when Dex pushes him over onto his stomach and straddles him, muttering Derek’s name interspersed with hoarse, punched-out curses. Derek’s cheeks are burning, and he shifts, just a little, so his face is pressed against a cooler part of the pillow.

“Can I?” Dex asks, his voice strangled, and Derek nods, several times to make sure Dex doesn’t miss it. He sure as fuck doesn’t trust his own voice right now.

Dex’s knees tighten around Derek’s hips as he comes with a groan, striping Derek’s low back and the top of his ass. It’s hot against Derek’s skin, and he exhales shakily into the pillow.

“Fuck,” Dex whispers, moving to the side before he slides a hand under Derek’s shoulder and flips him over onto his back.

He’s painfully hard, leaking, even, and Dex makes a surprised noise at the sight of him, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Derek has half a second to feel bitterly embarrassed before Dex leans over and sucks him down. His hips jerk up in surprise, and Dex pulls back to cough.

“Shit, sorry,” Derek mumbles, reaching out to rub a hand through Dex’s hair. He means for it to just be soothing, but he ends up tugging a little. Dex shivers, with a little groan, and Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “You like that?”

Dex’s eyes are closed, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Apparently.”

“That’s fun.”

Derek does it again, tugging a little harder, but Dex bats his hand away. “I’m kind of doing something, here.”

“Right, sorry.” Derek moves his hand above his head. “Go forth and suck me off, please.”

Dex rolls his eyes but does, and all of Derek’s carefully-manufactured chill disappears in about 30 seconds. Dex is eager and sloppy in all the best ways, and Derek is still pretty keyed up from earlier. The objectively awesome view isn’t helping, either, with Dex’s broad, freckled shoulders—broad enough that Derek can feel the stretch in his thighs—and the way the muscles in his arm stand out in sharp relief as he braces his weight.

“Fuck, you—you look so good like that, shit. Dex.” Derek nudges him with his knee and licks his lips. “Dex, c’mon, I’m really close.”

Dex doesn’t budge, so Derek resorts to tugging on his hair. But that only makes him suck _harder_ , holy fuck, and Derek can’t help but arch into it. Dex presses him back down, and feeling the strength in his grip is the last straw before Derek shudders and comes in his mouth.

He’s still shaking when Dex lifts up on his knees and wipes his mouth, coughing a little. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck,” Derek breathes, and Dex flops down next to him. “And sorry, by the way. Did I, like, kick you or something?”

“Don’t care,” Dex rasps.

Derek heaves for breath, waiting until his heart rate resembles something normal before he says anything. “That was kind of amazing.”

 _Kind of_ , Dex mouths, and Derek laughs, rolling over to press his forehead to Dex’s shoulder. “Breakfast?” he asks, and Dex nods, his arm flung over his face.

“Yeah. Wanna eat first or shower?”

Derek groans, completely unhappy with making that decision. He’s starving, yeah, but _that shower_ … “I—”

He’s interrupted, rudely, by his stomach, which rumbles plenty loud enough for both of them to hear.

Dex moves his hand off his face, his eyebrows lifted high. “Okay, decision made.” He stretches, cracking his back, and hops off the bed with more energy than should really be possible. “How do you like your eggs?”

Derek grins. “Any way, as long as you’re the one making them.”

Dex grumbles something in response to that, but Derek doesn’t hear it. He lets himself laze in his orgasm-induced stupor for a few more minutes before dragging himself out of bed. He puts on a pair of his own boxers but rifles through Dex’s drawers for something else. Derek can’t bring himself to wear anything with the Bruins logo on it, but he finds this awesome, soft UMaine hockey hoodie that he slips on and also fully plans on sticking into his suitcase before he leaves.

Dex is standing in front of the stove in the kitchen, carefully watching a pot of boiling water, and Derek steps up behind him to wrap his arms around his bare waist.

“I hope you like poached. It’s pretty much my only skill.” Derek makes a noise at that, and Dex has the decency to duck his head a little as he carefully cracks an egg into the water. “Y’know, in the kitchen.”

“Poached is great.” Derek watches over his shoulder for a moment and then kisses the curve of his neck. “Do you have bread? Or are you one of those weird gluten-free people?”

“No, there’s some in the fridge.”

Derek drags himself away to investigate. It’s definitely wheat bread, with more seeds in it than necessary, but it’ll do for toast. It’s a good accompaniment for Dex’s poached eggs, which are, in fact, perfect, and they eat standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the breakfast bar.

They jerk each other off in the shower afterward, soapy and steamy and exactly as wonderful as Derek had imagined the evening before, and his dick is officially exhausted.

They don’t get back in bed, only because Dex throws the sheets in the wash, and instead collapse on the couch to watch more Brooklyn 99.

“This is the best,” Derek slurs after three episodes, his head pillowed on Dex’s thigh. “I think couch potato is my natural state.”

Dex pokes curiously at his abs. “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

Derek swats his hand away because their relationship is too new for his touch to be anything but arousing, and his dick really is tired. “This time of year, at least, fuck yeah.”

“Couch day?” Dex asks, and Derek groans.

“Yes,” he says fervently, and he really must be an adult because that’s pretty much the sexiest thing Dex could have said.

* * *

They’re both a little too high-strung to veg out for too long, though, and by the next afternoon they’re wandering around Back Bay, hats and sunglasses on in a vain attempt to stay disguised.

Derek grabs Dex by the sleeve and tugs him off the sidewalk. “Oh, we’re totally going in here.”

Dex frowns up at the storefront but doesn’t resist. “And why are we going to a Crate and Barrel?”

“Because you need furniture for that balcony.”

“Okay,” Dex says agreeably, but then Derek ignores the sign for the outdoor furniture and detours toward the back instead. “Wait, what else?” Dex asks, following.

“Bar stools!” he calls out over his shoulder. “You totally need these, too.”

There are several options, and Dex carefully sits on each one before pointing to a nice pair of black leather ones. “I like those. How many? Three? Four?”

Derek tilts his head, trying to picture Dex’s breakfast bar in his head. They maybe should have measured first. “Three.”

With that choice made, they move upstairs to look at outdoor furniture. There’s a large selection, considering that it’s almost summer, and Derek gasps at the set at the front of the display. “Look at this one!”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have room on my balcony for a,” Dex bends over to look at the tag, “$4000 sectional.”

“That’s such a bummer, man,” Derek says, already stretched out on it. “Because this is awesome.”

“What about this one?” Dex asks, and Derek cranes his neck to look. He’s not ready to get off this couch yet.

“Eh.” He wrinkles his nose. “The table is kinda ugly.”

The decision takes a little longer, but Dex finds a set of gray armchairs with a matching table that Derek approves of. Dex pays for everything and schedules a delivery, while Derek tries to resist buying everything in the sale section at the front of the store. He _knows_ he doesn’t need a $90 potted succulent, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it.

Afterward, Derek insists on doing the swan boat ride in the Public Garden, mostly just so he can tell Dex the story of the lesbian swans. Dex buys them coffee and what he swears are the best chocolate croissants in the city, and they find a shady place in the grass to sit in the Common. Derek takes the croissant Dex hands him and peers at it curiously. “Do you know how much butter is in these things?”

“Yeah, it’s what makes them taste so good,” Dex says. Derek takes a careful bite, his mouth dropping open in an involuntary moan, and Dex grins. “Good, right?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need another one of these.”

“I bought three,” Dex says, his mouth full. “I’ll arm-wrestle you for the third one.”

Derek takes another bite and stretches out his legs. “I’ll fight to the death.”

Dex ends up making an utter mess of his own croissant, crumbs everywhere, and Derek snaps a picture, before he can think better of it, and laughs as he looks down at it. It’s actually a good shot, with the soft light filtering through the trees, and Dex rolls his eyes when Derek tells him so.

“Careful with that attitude, I’ll put it on Insta.”

Dex takes a sip from his coffee. “You can, if you want.”

Derek blinks, thrown. He was completely joking. “I…what?”

Dex sighs. “I mean, not like—”

“You don’t want me to caption it,” Derek interrupts, “ _say hello to the guy I fucked three hours ago_?”

Dex rolls his eyes but doesn’t blush, which means Derek needs to up his game. He opens his mouth to try, but Dex keeps talking.

“Just—do you think, I don’t know, would people calm down about the rivalry shit? If everyone knew we were friends or whatever.”

“ _Or whatever_ ,” Derek repeats, with his smirk as filthy as he can make it, and there’s the blush. Score.

“Shut up, I know what you’re doing.”

Derek doesn’t dignify that with a response. He picks a flattering filter because he’s a nice guy and posts it, tagging Dex and adding a caption about how calories don’t count in the offseason. When he stuffs his phone back in his pocket and looks up, Dex is two bites into the third croissant.

Derek gasps. “You fucker.”

“You weren’t paying attention!”

Derek lunges for him, going for Dex’s ticklish spots and laughing as Dex tries to dodge his hands without dropping the croissant.

“Okay, okay,” Dex says, gasping for breath as he finally shoves Derek away with his knee. “Split it?”

“You already ate some, so I get a bigger piece.”

“I’ll split, you pick.”

Derek nods his agreement, so Dex carefully splits the croissant and holds out the pieces. Derek leans forward, under the guise of inspecting them more closely, and snatches a quick bite from one before grabbing the other. “Perfect, thanks.”

“Asshole,” Dex says, but it sounds alarmingly fond.

* * *

“How are you feeling?”

Derek turns his head and grins at his mom, who’s sitting on the other side of the car. She looks beautiful in her black dress, and Derek is so glad he asked her to come. “I’m great. Thank you for coming with me.”

She smiles and thumbs at his cheek, like she’s done since he was little. “I will always drop anything to be your date. And I can’t wait to meet Will.”

“Don’t forget that it’s a secret.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and yeah, maybe Derek can see where he gets his attitude from. “I’m aware of that, Derek.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. He smooths out a crease in his pants with his thumb, and his mom’s hand covers his.

“Are you nervous, sweetie?”

“No,” he says, then swallows. “Maybe a little.”

She pats his hand. “I’m so proud of you either way, you know that. And so is Will.”

“Don’t cheer for him if he wins,” he warns, and she laughs.

“I promise, I won’t. I also need to get a photo with Bob, your mama’s gonna be so jealous,” she says, and Derek winces. He really doesn’t want to know anything about his mama’s weird crush on Jack’s dad.

When they arrive, Derek helps his mom out of the car. Dex must’ve been in the car just in front of them because he’s only about ten feet ahead on the red carpet. There’s a woman lingering behind him, whom Derek recognizes from pictures as Dex’s sister. She’s about a head shorter, even in heels, and even though her hair is blonde-ish instead of red, she has the same brown eyes and freckles.

Derek steps up to her and touches her arm. “Kelly, right? Hi.”

She turns with a grin and somewhat surprisingly, hugs him. “Derek! It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“You, too,” he says sincerely. “You look great.”

“Likewise.” She touches his lapel and lowers her voice. “The gray is nice. Did you guys coordinate?”

“No,” he lies, and she laughs.

“Sure. How—oh, would you look at that.”

Derek follows her gaze over his shoulder, twisting to see his mom and Dex already talking. “Oh, shit,” he says under his breath, hurrying over to them. He can’t believe that Dex is meeting his mother in front of the entire NHL media, Derek really should have thought this through better.

His mom is holding Dex’s hand in both of hers and grinning up at him. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.”

Derek groans inwardly and glares at her from behind Dex.

“From TV, I mean!” she adds quickly, which is almost worse.

Dex laughs. “It’s great to meet you, too.”

“All right.” Derek wraps his arm around his mom’s shoulders and tugs her away from Dex. “We can continue this later.”

She frowns at him, but Derek is just a little too high-strung to handle this right now. Dex catches him before he can go too far, though, and pulls him into a friendly little hug, probably for the cameras considering that they saw each other this morning.

“You had an amazing season,” he says, low enough that Derek has to concentrate to hear what he’s saying. “You’re gonna win it.”

The cameras are flashing, distracting him, and Derek can’t even get it together enough to say something kind in response. Thankfully, a woman in a headset intercepts them and starts leading Derek down the line of reporters.

He answers what feels like a thousand variations of the same two questions, but finally the nice woman lets him go inside. He finds his mom, who’s giddy over the pictures she got with Bad Bob, and guides them to their seats.

Derek fidgets through the first three awards, clapping when he’s supposed to and listening to his mom’s chatter, which he knows she’s just doing to help him calm down.

Then it’s time for their award, and Derek watches the highlight package with his heart in his throat. They aren’t the only Calder candidates—there’s also a Russian guy from the Canes whom he doesn’t really know—but everyone knows that it’s going to be between him and Dex. And honestly, it’s probably neck-and-neck. Dex scored a couple more goals, Derek’s plus-minus was a little better, but otherwise they were pretty much even, statistically.

Derek completely missed who’s actually presenting the award, but whoever it is steps up to the mike. “And the Calder Memorial Trophy goes to…”

The dude trails off, taking his sweet time opening that envelope, and Derek is going to _die_.

“Derek Nurse.”

He exhales so hard that he shivers, and he digs his fingers into his thighs before he stands up. He ducks down so his mom can hug him and press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers in his ear, and he smiles shakily at her.

Dex, who’s in the row in front of him, is already standing in the aisle, reaching out to pull Derek into a bro hug that’s pretty light on the _bro_. Derek steps back sooner than he’d like, and Kelly smiles up at him as she pats his arm. “Congratulations,” she says, loud over the music, and Derek mouths _thank you_ at her.

He squeezes Dex’s arm as he pulls back and heads up to the stage. He shakes the random dude’s hand, and then he’s standing there squinting into the lights and actually holding the Calder, which is heavier than he thought it’d be.

Derek’s too superstitious to actually have prepared a speech beforehand, but he did make sure that he thought through the groups of people he _would_ thank, hypothetically.

You know, just in case.

He gets through it with a minimal amount of fumbling, thanking his moms and his teammates and his coaches and the fans, and—

“And thanks to Will,” he adds quickly, before he loses his nerve, “for always making me better.”

He smiles in their general direction and then walks off the stage, letting yet another woman in a headset guide him to wherever he’s supposed to go.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur, giving interviews and taking pictures and congratulating all the other winners. At the party afterward, seemingly everyone wants to talk to him and shake his hand, which is cool as hell, but he’s only really interested in seeing one person right now.

Finally, _finally_ , on his third circuit of the room, he literally runs into Dex. He looks so happy, even though he lost, and Derek just wants to hug him, all these people be damned. He settles for a little shoulder punch instead, and Dex grabs his wrist, lighting fast. “C’mon, I found a place.”

Derek follows him—because he would follow Dex anywhere—to a little alcove off the hallway that branches off from the path to the bathrooms.

It’s completely deserted, and he feels safe enough to crowd Dex against the wall and wrap his arms around his waist. “All we’re missing is an ice machine,” he says under his breath, and Dex laughs.

“Congratulations. You really deserved it.”

Derek tips his forehead against Dex’s and closes his eyes. He’d pictured this part, the Calder part, but having Dex in his arms is even better than whatever else he could have expected from his rookie year.

“Thank you.”

“We didn’t make a bet on this,” Dex says, soft and right into his ear, and Derek shudders.

“That was dumb of me,” Derek manages, and Dex huffs a laugh against his cheek.

“You can now. If you want.”

“Picking the prize _after_ I win? That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“Maybe I’m feeling generous.”

“The _after_ -afterparty will be in my hotel room, then.”

Dex laughs and kisses him, firm and sweet. Derek leans into it for as long as he dares, then pulls back and thumbs across Dex’s cheekbone.

“We should probably go back,” Dex says, even though he doesn’t budge, and Derek nods.

“Yeah.”

Finally they separate and head back down the hallway toward the party.

“I’m gonna win the Norris before you, though,” Dex says under his breath, crowding close enough for their fingers to brush for just a second, and Derek laughs, loud and bright.

“Bring it.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Let's just pretend that Parks & Rec isn't available on streaming in this universe so Dex can have his romantic gesture.)
> 
> I already have 5K words written of a Dex POV sequel, so...we'll see what happens with that!
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends. ♥ Be my friend on [Tumblr](http://leslieknopeismyshiningstar.tumblr.com/)!


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